


fine

by elicul



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John, Angst, Eating Disorder, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Previous Self-Harm, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:05:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 30,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5835532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elicul/pseuds/elicul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fine(v): to make or become thinner<br/>(adj): satisfactory</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prequel

**Author's Note:**

> i'll update tags as i write more. i only have a few chapters already written out. this one i keep working on, so it should be updated from time to time, but not on any sort of schedule. sorry.

John often used Bobby's home as a sort of main base. Most hunters relied on Bobby to help keep up facades and assist with research, but John had come to think of Bobby's place as a second home for him and his boys. Although he did not always show it, Bobby was happy to take the boys.

Occasionally, Bobby Singer, town drunk, would wander into some bar about an hour before closing and talk to the bartender about his boys. People in town would sometimes see these two kids coming or going from Bobby's property, but they knew they weren't Bobby's sons. He and Karen had never had kids. No one knew who those children were, or who the man with the nice car was, but they were around suspiciously often, and the two men were often bickering on the front porch. Maybe following the loss of his wife all those years back, the old man had decided to take up a new... lifestyle. No one cared enough to ask, though. They would just smile occasionally when the drunk would show them pictures of these two little kids and mumble gruffly about how big they're getting, damn near eating him out of house and home when they come visit.

So, sure, Sioux Falls residents knew of Sam and Dean, but they paid the boys no mind. This was fine, of course, but some nights, Bobby wished someone'd intervene and see that these kids didn't deserve to be living out of a car most of their life. He wished someone'd talk some sense into John and let the boys enroll in the local school and stay with Bobby for a while, keep out of the family business, live normal lives for change. John wouldn't hear of it.

Except this one time, when Dean was getting older--kid must've been about twelve and he could shoot near as well as John--and Bobby tried to talk his friend into leaving Sam and Dean with him, just so they could finish off the school year.

Naturally, the two hot-headed men turned the conversation into a fight in a matter of minutes. They fought over the way that Dean was being raised. The boys were asleep on the living room floor under the same blanket.

"He is a child, John."

"He's a hunter."

"The kid can't even spend a night by himself. Can't sleep without you or Sam nearby. Left to his own devices he'd be up all night with his back pressed against a wall, and a salt line around him, and a rifle in his hands."

Dean, awoken by the arguing, cringed at Bobby's words. He wasn't some snot-nosed little kid. He could sleep a night on his own. Probably. It was Sam who couldn't be alone. Not Dean. Or at least, that's what he told himself as he pulled his little brother closer. Sam mumbled something in his sleep and Dean stroked his hair, willing him to stay asleep. Arguing made Sam nervous when he was young. Who knew someday he'd grow up and want to become a lawyer? He used to cry every time John yelled at him or Dean. Raised voices scared him. 

 

Dad was driving and screaming at other cars. It was raining and despite Dad’s best efforts, the Impala swerved clear across the road every couple towns. Dean had no idea where they were going. The only thing he knew was that Sam was clinging to this yellow stuffed rabbit Mom gave him when he was a baby. Dean was glad that he was still bigger because then he could hold on to all of Sam. Dad stopped off in this 24-hour pharmacy and left Sam and Dean in the car to sleep. Lord knows where he went, but when he came back, he woke Sam up with his drunken grumbling and Sam began to cry. Dad yelled at him and threw the stuffed animal out into the parking lot and told him it was time he grew up. Dean would have dove out of the car to get the bunny if he knew Dad wouldn’t have taken off driving without him in the car. It wasn’t that Sam stopped crying after this. It was just that he started fighting back (often while crying, but it was a completely different dynamic between him and Dad now and Dean was the one who was scared now.)

 

"I know my son. I know what he can handle, and he can handle this hunt. He's growing up, he's got to be a man, protect his family, learn the tricks of the trade."

"You're going to get the boy killed," Bobby insisted.

"He's a good hunter, Bobby. Well trained. I'm not worried about him out there, I trust my son with my life."

"Will you listen to me? I am not worried about him getting killed on a hunt."

"Then what are you worried about? That I don't know how to take care of my kids?"

"Look at him."

John threw a glance at his boys. He could see Dean's hand moving absentmindedly through Sam's hair, though that didn't prove the boy was awake. Sometimes he was able to comfort Sam without even completely surfacing into consciousness. Still, John lowered his voice.

"I don't see anything wrong with him."

Bobby aggressively gestured at Dean. "The boy doesn't eat, barely sleeps. He's running on fear and adrenaline from hunts. He has no idea how to be a kid. I took him to the park once to throw around a ball and he didn't understand why. He's not something you can lean on, John. It's too much responsibility. He's too young."

"I care about my boys. They're both fine."

"Where are you when the boy wakes up screaming from nightmares? Drunk out of your mind, no doubt. They need a father before they need a drill sergeant. Just... just talk to him. You'll see what I mean. Ask him how he's doing and he'll brush it off. 'I'm fine, uncle Bobby' but he'll look back over his shoulder to make sure Sam is okay. That boy would die if it meant keeping his little brother safe. And that's an amazing quality, that sort of love and loyalty, but sometimes it scares me how little he cares about himself."

John just finished off his whiskey. 

"Fuck's sake, John. Go. I dare you. Have one goddamn conversation with that boy about anything but hunting, and you'll see what I mean."

Dean stopped moving his hand through Sam's hair. He wanted Bobby to be wrong. He was fine. Nightmares were no big thing. Dreams aren't real. What's real is protecting his family at all costs. 

It was Sam they should all be worried about. He was odd, sure, Dean thought as he looked down at his brother tucked under his arm. He certainly wasn't a freak, like everyone called him, but something was off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, stories about you and your siblings when you were little, and concerns all welcome.


	2. Chapter 1

Years pass and Sam is in high school, learning about flirting from Dean, fighting from Dad, and physics from school. 

The neighbors must see the two boys coming and going from the foreclosed house, but they seem not to be up to any trouble and in a town like this, it's rare one cannot relate to the two boys living the best they can with an absent father and no home. The boys seem mostly clothed and fed properly, so the whole little town silently agrees to leave them be. After all, the littlest can't be more than fourteen. 

Breakfast when Dad was awake and at home pretty much wen the same way every time. 

Dean. Alarm. Sam. Kitchen. Cereal. John. Small fight. Pacify. Fight. Coffee. Sam. Dean.

Sam seemed more eager to pick fights during meals. They would all sit down together from time to time and Sam, being a moody and unreasonable teenager, would blow something Dad said out of proportions while picking at his meal. When the fight started to get bad, Dean would try to step in, but Sam would shove his plate away, pull on sneakers, and go out for a run. Sometimes Dean chased after him, finding Sam only a few blocks away with his back against some building. 

“Sam?”

“Go away, Dean.”

“Sammy, come on. It’s cold out and Dad said…”

“Fuck dad.”

“Excuse me?”

“And fuck you too! Go be with daddy, huh? Go be his good little pet.”

Dean pulled Sam up the the collar of his shirt without much force, but Sam lifted clear off the ground. He felt his arm shaking, but not from any sort of exertion, but from Sam’s crying. “Sam…”

“Shut up. Shut up! I don’t care. I don’t care anymore. I can’t.”

Dean put him down and Sam crumpled into Dean’s chest. He cried himself sick, not that much came up. “Alright. Come on, Sammy. Let’s get you to school.”

They walked back to the foreclosed house they were squatting in and grabbed Sam’s backpack.

“Listen, Dad’ll be gone by the time I get out of work. I’ll pick you up after work and let you pick something out from the liquor store for tonight, okay?”

Sam nodded and smiled with one side of his mouth, as if trying to fight it. 

School passed in a blur. The only high light was this girl, Abbie, who was in Sam’s pre-calc class. She smiled at him when he walked into the classroom and took a seat at the back, hoping she didn’t notice he was wearing the same clothes as yesterday and hadn’t gotten much sleep.

“Hey, Sam.”

He nodded. 

“So, my older sister is throwing a party at my house. She said if it means I leave her alone, I could bring someone.”

“That’s really cool.”

“Oh.” She smiled. She was always smiling. Some magazine told her that the best way to let someone know that you like them is to smile a lot around them. “Oh, I meant… I was wondering if you wanted to come by. It’s this Saturday night. All my sister’s friends are like twenty, so it’d be nice to have someone to talk to, if you wanted? If not that’s totally fine too, I guess, it’s just—“

He grabbed her wrist to keep her from talking so fast. “I’ll have to ask my brother, but I really, really would love to come.”

More smiling.

After school Sam hung out in the library until they asked him to leave. It was dark out already, winter was setting in. The school was counting down for Christmas, but Sam had a feeling he would be gone before then. He waited outside for Dean. Each of the librarians offered to give him a ride home, not wanting to leave some kid unattended, but he assured them that his brother would be there soon. Ms. Rosze idled in her car for eighteen minutes until Dean came walking up to the school.

“Ready, you?” He called to Sam.

Sam hitched his backpack up higher on his shoulder and walked to meet Dean. Ms. Rosze’s car drove off.

The liquor store was almost too close to the high school to make sense. The skeezy man behind the counter never checked IDs. Dean was a regular, but he happened to actually be twenty one. Dean showed Sam around the store and pointed to the fridges full of beer. “Your choice, kid.”

“Can we get liquor?”

“Oh. I see. Tough guy.”

Sam blushed at the teasing but held his ground. 

“Sure. Just no tequila. I’m not waking up tomorrow three states over and topless.”

Sam reaches over deans shoulder and grabs for a bottle of Jameson. A little older than Dean. He went up to the counter and Sam met him. Sous use, already key bldyshing at unfazed taunts. 

They stopped by a burger joint on the way back. "Can't drink on an empty stomach," Dean advised, and Sam took it maybe too much to heart. They sat at the counter and Sam, who hadn't eaten more than half a bowl of oatmeal in the last two days, put away a bacon cheeseburger, two orders of fries, his and most of Dean's chocolate milkshake. His hands shook but Dean chose to ignore that. So, Sam was hungry. So maybe later he'll have to be cleaning up all that food out of the comforter tonight. Big deal. Sam seemed jazzed. 

At the house Dean settled onto the crappy couch. He pulled the bottle back next to his ear when Sam reached for it, so he climbed into Dean’s lap to grab it out of his brother’s hands. “Ready, Sammy?"

"Yeah, yeah." He ran his hands down Dean’s chest, as if to prove it. Dean cracked open the bottle, held it by the neck, and took a long gulp. Sam watched how Dean’s throat moved. It was downright pornographic to be so close to, to almost be able to run his fingers down the length of that throat. 

Dean resurfaced for air, took another swig, and passed the bottle into Sam's hands. Sam downed as many mouthfuls as he could. It tasted like the burn of salt and holy water before he gagged and Dean pulled the bottle away, pouring another mouthful of it into their laps. 

“Tryna drown yourself, kid?"

“S-sorry. Sorry," he sputtered. 

Dean slipped into drunkeness gracefully while Sam didn't take another drink, just felt the heaviness and the thoughtlessness of the booze and rode the waves of it.

"How're ya feeling, Sammy?"

"Okay," he shrugged. The room was spinning and Sam could feel every bit of food that he had shoveled into his body earlier. It sat at the back of his throat. 

"I'm gonna go out and have a smoke. You wanna come or just hang tight here?" Dean always smoked more when he was drunk. 

"I'm okay," Sam said, reaching for the Jameson. Dean laughed and handed Sam the bottle.

"Careful, you."

Sam nodded (and regretted that action almost immediately.) His vision swam and his stomach heaved, a dark burning creeping into the very back of his tongue. 

The front door slammed shut as he slipped out the back, scrambling towards the tree line before his legs gave out and he got sick. When he caught his breath again he dared a glance back at the house, then kicked himself up onto his knees, and pressed his right hand as far down his throat as he could, relaxing the muscles so when he scratched and stabbed at them with his fingernails. His whole body bucked forward. He kept pressing until his body just made these awful wounded animal noises and offered up nothing more than foul tasting saliva pooled under the tongue and the acidic smell of sick clinging to his sweating skin. 

He no longer felt like a balloon swollen to passed an acceptable size. The alcohol no longer pooled at the top of his esophagus, in fact, he felt mostly sober, daring another two sips as Dean came back in the front door. 

"Still going at it, baby?" Dean beamed, his lips and limbs bouncing happily to the beat of the liquor. 

Sam nodded, feeling light headed and hallowed out. 

Dean grabbed two bottles of water from the floor in the kitchen and cracked them open. "Stay hydrated, you. Hangovers are brutal.” He smiled, handing the second bottle to Sam, but hesitated while they both hung on to the water. "What happened there," Dean asked, running a lazy finger over the back of Sam's hand. There was a cut on his knuckle, blood still trickilibg down his fingers, as if someone had come and scraped off a couple layers of Sam's skin. The cut felt familiar in a pit-of-your-stomach kind of way, like the ache of organs soaked and wrung out to dry. 

Sam shrugged, his eyes rather clear and his motions controlled. 

"You feeling anything?"

"Sure. A little warm and a little lighter."

Dean scoffed. "'Course you're not a cheap date." He tipped the bottle toward Sam, offering some, but Sam shook his head. 

A vacant nausea. 

Sam seemed mostly sober, as if he had held all the shots in his mouth and dumped them down the drain just so he could drink more. The kid should have been smashed. 

They begin to drift into one another on the floor, becoming proressively more entangled without any discussion of it. 

With his head tucked into Dean's lap and Dean's nails scratching absently along his back, he felt a little better. Dean kept tipping the bottle down his throat from time to time but mostly they just sat there, at peace with the silence. 

"You awake?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded. 

"I'm gonna take another cigarette break. Come with me."

"Okay."

They left through the front door and hoisted themselves up onto the roof. Same was certain his brother wasn't going to be able to do it, but even drunk Dean was deft and agile. He helped pull Sam up then dug through his pocket for his Marlboros. 

"Want one?"

"Can I just try it first?"

"Sure. Gimme a sec."

Dean lit one and took a long, hard drag. Sam was too fascinated with Dean's mouth to notice, at first, that he had beckoned him forward. 

Sam leaned in and Dean pressed his lips agains Sam's. He opened his mouth a little and Sam followed suit, swallowing the smoke from Dean's mouth into his. 

"Didn't even cough," Dean praised. "Are you sure you've never done this before?"

"I don't even know what we just did."

"It's called shotgunning. With beer you stab a hole in the bottom of the can and drink about half and then pass it off to someone else. With cigarettes or pot, you do what we just did."

"Can we do it again?"

Dean inhaled some more smoke and leaned in again. Sam let his lips linger on Dean's for a beat too long, but neither of them acknowledged it. 

"You can do this with weed?" He asked after blowing the smoke out. 

"One thing at a time, Sammy."

"Well you kinda shot that horse in the face when you let me drink and smoke, so we might as well..."

"Pace yourself."

"Please?"

And since Dean could never resist those hazel, puppy-dog eyes and because he was drunk, plus Sam seemed sober, he agreed. "Don't fall off the roof. I'm going to go get my bowl."

Sam saluted sarcastically and Dean laughed as he jumped down from the roof to the landing at the top of the stairs. "You're cute, you little brat."

He tried not to blush, not that it mattered, since he was hidden in the shadows. Sam shivered in the dark early morning and when Dean came back outside he had two jackets draped over his arms.

Sam took one gratefully and watched Dean mess around with the glass bowl in his hands. Their mother's wedding ring clinked against the blue glass.

It was one of the few things given to them after their mother died. A yellow stuffed rabbit, her wedding band, two pictures, and ashes. Dad wore it for a long time, the ring, but when Dean turned sixteen, his father gave it to him. He wore it on a chain at first, then on his finger when he was sure he wouldn't lose it. He never takes it off. If Sam asked Dean, he'd say that John looked at him very sternly on the morning of his sixteenth birthday, handed him the ring, told him not to lose it, take care of Sammy, and left for a hunt. If Sam asked John, he'd say that fifteen year old Dean had begged for the ring for the whole year, and then he finally gave in, and the rest of Dean's version is true.

Dean tilted the bowl toward Sam.

"I don't know how."

"I'll show you."

"Can't we shotgun it?"

"You need to learn."

"I will. Later. You'll teach me."

Dean tilted his head back and laughed. His movements were much more fluid when he was drunk, not the sharp changes in stance like when their father walked into the room and started giving orders. 

They smoked in silence until there was only burnt residue left in the bowl. 

“Alright, let’s go in. I’m sure it’s cold out here,” Dean said as if unsure of the temperature. Of course it was cold. But, then again, Sam couldn’t quite tell from feeling it. He only knew it was cold because he had remembered it to be. When he looked back at Dean he realized his brother had already jumped back down to the landing at the top of the stairs. Sam tried to follow, but everything around him was moving in frames, like there was a strobe light he hadn’t noticed until now.

“Dean?” Sam blushed at how young and scared he sounded when he said that. But that’s exactly how he felt. 

“Come sit on the edge and slide off. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. Promise.”

Sam couldn’t tell how Dean could promise such a thing, if he felt anything like how Sam felt, and he would have said as much, if the thought hadn’t exited his head as quickly as it had come. He jumped down and landed, crouched, at the top of the stairs. When he tried to stand up, he swayed backwards towards the siding of the house, but Dean caught him before he hit it. “You feeling okay?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, in we go, huh?”

Dean went back to his spot on the couch to just enjoy the feeling, but Sam made a beeline toward the kitchen. There was not a lot of food in the house. Maybe enough for the two of them to get by on their own for another four days or so. The problem with that calculation, though, was that Dean didn’t account for A. munchies and B. Sam hitting a growth spurt. He needed more food that Dean these days. It was only natural. So it wasn’t so weird when Sam managed to eat them out of house and home while Dean vacantly watched. Puberty plus pot apparently equal peanut butter, crackers, pickles, cold pizza crusts from the trash, lucky charms, three quarters gallon of milk, tortilla chips, half a block of sharp cheddar, six eggs (two raw just to see if he could do it). Not that anyone was keeping track. Totally normal. 

And maybe Dean could have ignored the weird eating, but Sam barely acknowledged him the whole time. He seemed a little reminiscent of some of the monsters in the lore that Dean’s read. He was focused, quick, and out of control. His eyes are cloudy and red. 

“I’ll be-“ was all Sam could manage before barreling up the stairs, one hand covering his mouth. Sam ate so much it was a wonder he didn’t get sick sooner. Dean tried not to think about the sound of his baby brother getting sick because of something that Dean had encouraged. After a period of time, and Dean wasn’t sure how long that period was, (time seemed to move in jumps when he was high) he climbed the stairs to sit outside the bathroom door, with his back against the opposite wall. 

“We okay in there?”

Only more unpleasant sounds came from behind the door. At least Dean knew that Sam was alive. 

“Want me to come in there?”

“No!”

Dean put his hands up in surrender even though Sam could not see him. “Okay, okay. I’m just letting you know I’m here if you need me.”

More silence followed until Sam muttered “thanks.”

“Pain in the ass,” Dean said, more to himself than anything else. He got up and went into one of the duffle bags he had and took out a plain t-shirt. He went down to the kitchen and soaked the shirt in water and brought it back up to Sam, who had fallen asleep on the bathroom floor. 

“Oh, you’re making this fun, baby.” Dean used the shirt to brush Sam’s sweaty bangs off of his forehead and tried to wipe him down as best he could. Minus a little sick on his hand and a lot of sweat, the kid seemed okay. Breathing fine, a little smelly, and dried out. Dean carried him downstairs to the couch and got him water, humming to himself all the while. Dean hummed when he was nervous or when he was cooking. John told Dean once that it was something his mother used to do. 

Mostly-conscious Sam drank the room temperature water that was pressed up to his lips. He let Dean hold him upright even though that was not completely necessary anymore. 

They fell asleep entangled with one another, Sam’s head on Dean’s chest so he could reach up and feel the pulse in his throat, pounding out of his skin, imbedding itself into Dean’s palm. Dean drifts in and out, happy to still be big enough to hold all of Sam. 

“How you feeling?” Dean asks when he’s pretty sure Sam’s awake for a bit.

“My throat hurts.”

“That’ll happen, baby. Sleep now. We’ll deal with this tomorrow."

In the morning when they wake, they clean up the remains of the night before and go about their days as normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, anecdotes about your across the street neighbor, and concerns all welcome.


	3. Chapter 2

"There will probably only be booze and chips, so let's go to Liberty before I drop you off."

"No, Dean, let's just make something at home."

"I don't feel like cooking and we have a little extra cash."

"I'll make grilled cheese."

"That's not a dinner for a growing boy," he said, ruffling Sam's hair.

So they took their usual seat in the booth closest to the kitchen doors. Table eleven. They didn't take menus, didn't wait for the hostess, just went to the table and within seconds, two cups of black coffee hit the table.

"How you boys doin'?"

"Not bad."

The waitress sat down next to Dean and they talked about her day of work and he tried to cram in every charming look and smile into the short conversation. She was the only girl in town who had said no when Dean asked her out.

“I’m just gonna, um, go pee,” Sam said awkwardly, and both of them disregarded him. 

He looked in the mirror for a long time. Maybe his cheekbones were a little more prominent, but really, his body had not changed much. His teeth were beginning to stain a bit, but that was fixable, he thought. 

The waitress was gone by the time Sam returned.

“Done jerking off?” Dean quipped. 

“Ha. Ha.”

“I ordered for you. Black and blue burger and a pop. Hope that’ll do.”

Sam shrugged. 

Two glass bottles of coke were placed on the table and the waitress winked at Dean before walking back to the counter, her hips swaying more than usual. 

“So, short stack, how’s school?”

“Educational.”

“Aw, com’on Sammy. Just ‘cause I dropped out doesn’t mean I don’t know anything about school. I finished the tenth grade. What’re you reading?”

Sam picked at the torn corner of his placemat. It was covered in colorful advertisements for shops all over town. Nothing really piqued his interest, though. “Catcher.”

Dean smiled. “That whiney ass Holden kid?”

“Yeah, him.”

“You like it?”

“I read it two schools ago.” Dean deflated a bit, so Sam continued, not wanting to disappoint. “But, yeah, it’s a good book.”

“He really cares about that kid sister and brother of his.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “Yeah, yeah he does. I mean, she’s a cute kid, Phoebe.”

“Right, Phoebe. Just a little thing and yet she can talk some damn sense into him.”

“It’s the curse of being younger sibling.”

“Like you can talk any sense into me. Head’s full of straw, oh great Oz.”

Sam looked up from the table. “Don’t say that.”

“What? ’s true. You’re the smart one.”

“And you’re the good looking one,” Sam resigned, knowing here was not the time or place for this argument. Of course Dean was smart. And of course he couldn’t recognize that in himself. John certainly didn’t help matters. Sam was the smart one. And he was the misfit for being so. 

“Hell yeah I am. Food’s here,” Dean said as the waitress set down their meals. Dean was a little dismissive to the waitress when she asked if they needed anything else with her cute little midwestern lilt. She frowned a bit before leaving, not checking back in with them for the rest of their meal. He was more interested in talking to Sam, who was prone to shutting Dean out these days. If his brother was talking, he sure as hell was going to be listening. In the end, Dean just threw some money down on the table and they left without fanfare. They drove to Abbie’s house. 

"If you need a ride home, I'll be up, Sammy," Dean called over the roar of the Impala. 

Even though no one was around, Sam looked back and growled, "it's Sam," before tugging on the end of his coat and sneaking around the back of the house, from where dance music was blaring. Dean felt a strange, warm sense of pride as he peeled off down the quiet suburban street.

Out back, there was a fire pit and open bags of chips and plastic cups strewn on ever solid surface. Up on the deck was a group of twenty-something's who must have been friends of Abbie's older sister and a yellow labrador swimming through a sea of unsteady legs, looking for dropped food. Sam, not seeing Abbie or knowing what else to do, went up to the edge of the porch and called the dog over. She was on the older side, mellow and friendly. And she shed so much Sam's black hoodie had all but turned white. 

"You made it," Abbie beamed as she knelt down beside Sam. "Her name's Díana."

"She's sweet."

"And hairy. We vacuum her as often as we can, but she's insistent on making more Díanas with all the fur that comes off her."

"I like the way you say her name."

"Díana?"

"Yeah."

"Dee ah nah. In Spanish 'a' makes an 'ah' sound, like what dentists make you say. Try."

"Díana."

Abbie laughed. They sat and pet the dog a while longer, watching everyone fumbling around and Abbie showing Sam that Díana only knew commands in Spanish. 

"Kinda cold, huh?"

Sam hadn't noticed the weather until she mentioned it and a shiver ran down his spine. She took him by the hand and dragged him into the kitchen through the glass sliding doors. When she shut them she smiled playfully. "People keep walking into it. Marta asked me to leave it open, but this is funnier. Watch." 

They leaned against the kitchen counter and watched two girls smack into it, one not fifteen minutes after the first had. The girls were engaged, according to Abbie.

"They're prefect for one another. They can have back to back appointments for their concussions."

Abbie bit her lip to stop from laughing. She shoved his shoulder just a little. "You're too much."

"So I've been told."

"Hey, do you want a drink?"

"Sure. Um, whatever you're having, I guess."

"Be right back." She practically skipped away before returning with two red cups. "It's vodka and cranberry juice. It's not bad, try some."

So Sam tipped back the cup and drank as much as he could, nearly finishing the whole drink.

"You can barely taste the vodka," he remarked.

"That's the point. Do you need another? Marta's boyfriend is making them."

"Yeah, sure, thanks," he said after finishing off what was left of his drink and handing his cup back to her. 

She fetched some more and Sam started to feel the poison kicking in already. While she sipped carefully at her drink, suspicious of how it may affect her, Sam just downed another before taking a few shots from Marta’s boyfriend. Abbie was engrossed in conversation with Marta’s childhood friend, so Sam had the opportunity to sneak away upstairs. 

There was a bathroom connected to Marta’s room, but he felt like a creep using it, so he used the one across the hall from what must have been Abbie’s room. Her room was incredible. Teal walls with pattered trim wallpaper around the top edge. Posters from her favorite bands and books and movies covering most of the walls. The bed was white with red and gold flowers. The curtains were an opaque yellow. Books were piled haphazardly next to the bed because there was not enough room on her bookshelf. On the shelves were some old stuffed animals and trophies and medals from her cheer squad and track team. Abbie was a flier. Petite and lithe, the girl could arch her back and hold her foot behind her head while standing one legged in the extended arms of her bases.

The weight in his stomach suddenly was too much to bear. He ducked into the bathroom and stood above the toilet with the seats up. He also started running water in the sink to drown out the noise. His left forearm pressed hard into his abdomen while he reached as far down his throat as he could. 

Someone knocked on the bathroom door, but Sam didn’t respond. There was blood mixed in with the berry juice and partially digested dinner, but he kept going. 

"Sam?” Abbie's voice rang out from the other side of the door. "You okay?” When he didn’t reply, she added, “Too much to drink?"

"I'm fine," he croaked out, voice torn from sick.

She knocked and twisted the handle a bit to see if it was locked. Sam cursed himself as she walked in. He tried to fall to his knees and hug the toilet like normal people do when they're ill, but she could see his one sleeve yanked up and blood dripping down his chin.

"Sam?”

“Christ, I didn’t realize you’d had so much to drink, I’m sorry,” she said, but she looked at him suspiciously. He flushed the evidence, ran his hands under the already running sink, and took out a pack of gum from his back pocket. Part of the blood had been from his lip, which was always split these days, breaking open whenever he smiled. He noticed it in the mirror, but there was also the nickel-y taste of it all down his throat. 

“I guess I’m a lightweight.”

“Sure.”

“How’s about we go back down to the party? It’s getting kinda late. Gotta enjoy it when it’s still in full swing,” he rambled.

“Don’t you want to call your brother?”

“Huh?”

“I think you should have your older brother come pick you up since you’re not feeling well.”

He shook his head vehemently while he cleaned himself up, dabbing at his lip with a shred of toilet paper. “No, I don’t want to worry him. This sort of thing just… happens. I dunno. Let’s go downstairs.”

Abbie guided him down the stairs and into the kitchen where most of the partygoers were hiding out from the cold. The only ones left outside were those who were too drunk to notice the cold and the smokers. 

“Play with the dog for a second, I have to talk to Marta.”

Sam followed the command without question. He overheard the conversation Abbie was having with her sister, but his knowledge of Spanish was limited. He could hear the words and try to piece them together, but translating the rapid conversation was too much for him.

“Él esta yendo a su casa. Creo que él vomito.”

Marta tsked. "Dominic no debería haber dado lo mucho que beber."

"No, quiero decir que él enfermó a propósito.”

“¡Oh, jovencito flaca! Pobrecito.” Marta said, looking over at Sam on the floor. "Llamar al hermano.”

Abbie nodded and went to join Sam. “Hey, Marta said she wants to start clearing people out of here. The drunks can stay and sleep on the floor, but everyone else has to start trickling out.”

“Sure thing. I guess I’ll just grab my jacket and head home.”

“Are you going to walk?”

“No point in calling Dean. I don’t live far.”

She crossed her arms. “You know what? I don’t even know where you live. I hardly know anything about you.”

Sam just looked at the floor and shrugged.

“Well, if Díana likes you, you can’t be all bad.” She stood up and looked down at him sternly. “Call your brother.”

Ten minutes later, Sam had slipped out through the front door and made his way down the street. He stopped at a convenience store about bought one of every kind of candy they sold, even the ones he didn’t like. He considered buying ice cream, but he hated brain freezes slowing him down, so he just got a pop. When the man behind the counter looked at him skeptically, Sam just shrugged and said, “Throwing a party.”

When his feet hit the pavement again, he was already unwrapping a kit-kat bar. The closer he got to the house, the more he stuffed food down his throat. It made him gag to keep going, but he felt like he had to. Even when he puked into a gutter about a block away from the house, he kept going. He threw the evidence into the neighbor’s trashcan and hurried around the house into the woods out back and pressed his fingers deeper and deeper until tears were running down his cheeks and his body was heaving terribly. He couldn’t tell if the crying was from getting sick or from being emotional about the whole damn thing. Doing this made him feel unclean, but at least he was getting the poison out of him. The guilt, though, it stuck around like the taste of stomach acid on the back of his tongue. 

Drenched in sweat and a little wobbly on his feet, Sam walked around and came in through the front door. Dean was drinking a beer and scanning through that morning’s paper. Looking for cases, maybe. 

“Sammy! How was the party?” Dean surprised himself that he even had the ability to finish that sentence. He had tripped over the coffee table in an effort to get to Sam, who had collapsed. Dean was just a few seconds too late, so Sam’s limp body was crumpled right over Dean’s feet, and his arm was like jello in Dean’s hand. 

“Up we go, kiddo,” Dean said as he hoisted Sam up over his shoulder.

Dean talked mostly to himself while he got Sam situated. “You know, maybe you’re a little young to be getting mixed up in all this shit, huh? Pretty little thing like you…” oh. “Shit. Shit shit shit. Sammy? Sam, wake up.”

He cringed while he did it, but Dean backhanded Sam, trying to wake him up. Sam yelped, but at least he was awake.

“Sam,” Dean shouted. 

Bleary eyed, Sam turned toward Dean. 

“Sam, did you make your own drinks?”

He shook his head.

“Goddamnit Sammy. You know better.” Dean scolded. “Did you ever set your drink down and walk away from it?”

Another shake of the head.

“Christ, Sam. What if— what if someone fucking drugged you or something? Why did you walk home? Why didn’t you call me?”

Sam just kinda moaned a bit and shut his eyes again. Still conscious, but refusing to deal with anything. Dean wasn’t quite sure what to do. He’d been rooifed before in his own time, but he’d never seen the effects of it on someone else, so he wasn’t even sure if that was what was wrong with Sam. 

“Alright, alright.” Dean carried Sam over to the couch and laid him on his side. There was blood at the corner of his mouth. He grabbed Sam’s jaw gently and asked, “Did someone hit you?”

No reply.

“I swear to god, Sam, if someone hit you…”

He just reached up and held Dean’s wrist in response. He pulled it down so Dean’s hand laid on his narrow chest and he closed his eyes again. Dean could feel the way Sam’s heart was racing, as if trying to burst straight through his breastplate. The edges of his fingers grazed his ribcage, just a little too close to the surface for Dean’s liking. 

“It’s okay. Shhh. It’s okay. Let me get you water and blankets and we’ll deal with this in the morning, huh?”

Sam closed his eyes again, having heard those same words before. Dean was good at the here and now. The follow-up was not quite his forte. Some distant part of him was glad that John was nowhere to be found lately. He seemed more than happy to just leave his sons here, wherever the hell they were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, list of the middle names of everyone you've ever loved, and concerns all welcome.


	4. Chapter 3

The next morning Sam was all too aware of his heartbeat. It pounded in every part of his body, harder and slower than he thought it ought to. He's sure Dean could feel it in his fingertips, which are draped over Dean’s stomach. It wasn't comfortable, the way they were lying enmeshed in one another. Sam’s head probably started out tucked against Dean’s shoulder, but he woke up with his neck bent funny so his head fell in his brother’s armpit. His legs were turned so they both fit on the couch and his hip was hurting him something awful because of it. Dean was asleep sitting up, his chin against his chest, his arm crushed under Sam’s weight. At that realization, Sam threw himself onto the other half of the couch. Poor Dean. 

There’s a bottle of water cracked open on the coffee table and beer spilled on the floor. Dean stirred. “You okay?” He asked.

“No,” Sam replied, truthfully.

Dean looked as bad as Sam felt. Once, only a few months back, Dad ran Dean ragged. He was awake for six days straight, barely functional. Dad tossed him off the case and, man, did Dean take it personally. Dad didn’t let him hunt again for another two towns, ranting day in and day out about how Dean needed to start taking these things seriously, that he has to have his shit together, has to have his health, if he wants to be of any use to anyone. Sam still had no idea how Dad didn’t see how invested Dean was, or, at least, how he took advantage of how invested Dean was. Cases with kids, something about them, they really get to Dean. By day four he was muttering to himself while doing research and ripping out fistfuls of his own hair. When Sam called him out on it, he seemed genuinely shocked he’d even done it. “Possession,” rang in Sam’s ears for weeks after. 

“Can I do anything?”

Sam just closed his eyes and shook his head so slightly that he wasn’t sure it was even noticeable. 

“You should try to get some sleep.”

“Not tired. Everything hurts.”

“I have painkillers from my collarbone.”

“’s not worth it. Thanks, though.” Sam smiled just a little, but it quickly fell from his face. “Can we, um.”

Dean nodded toward the stairs and raised an eyebrow. 

“Yeah. Please?”

 

During that hunt when Dean really lost himself, Sam witnessed one of the only fights between his brother and father from recent memory. Dad had found a tiny ziplock bag, like the ones that hold spare buttons that are stitched to new clothes, filled with fine white powder. 

“I can’t have someone working on a case who doesn’t take it seriously,” Dad said.

Dean flinched like he had been backhanded. “Take it seriously? I _am_ taking it seriously. I need to stay awake, stay focused. That,” Dean shouted, stabbing his hand in the direction of the bag on the table, “helps.”

“You don’t get to be this reckless, Dean.”

“It’s not reckless. I’m not doing it for shits and giggles, it’s for the case.”

“I need you focused.”

“And that focuses me.”

Dad shook his head. “I don’t want you anywhere near this case.”

“But I have a lead, there’s a guy out in…”

Dad threw the keys to the impala at Dean. They hit him square in the chest and his reflexes kicked in just in time to lazily catch them before they hit the ground. “Pack up and get out. Take your brother to the first motel in the phone book in Pulaski County and wait for me there.”

“But, Dad,” Dean protested. 

“Now, Dean. I’m not letting addicts on my cases. You’re benched.”

“I’m not an addict,” Dean yelled. He sounded defensive. Sam wondered if his brother was high while he was making his argument. Sure, he had noticed the way Dean’s demeanor had changed during this case, but he never would have guessed it was because drugs were involved. 

“Prove it. Pack your shit and get out. If I find this again, I’m dropping you off in the middle of nowhere and not looking back, you hear me? You're an adult now, son. Act like it.” While he was talking, Dad had stood up and walked over to Dean, getting right up in his face so the final words were hot against Dean’s cheek. “Am I understood?”

Dean dropped his gaze. “Yes, sir.”

 

They crawled into bed together, sitting up on opposite sides. Dean was wearing these jeans that hardly fit him anymore. Or maybe they never fit him. Maybe they had been Dad's first. They hung low off his hips. When he had reached his arms above his head to shake out the comforter on the bed, Sam saw dark curls of hair peeking over the top of Dean’s waistband, so he knew his brother wasn’t wearing underwear. Just those jeans, and a dark green sweater that one of his girlfriends had gotten him for his nineteenth birthday. 

That was ages ago. Sam couldn’t remember her name to save his life, but Dean always remembered the girls. He remembered what their favorite thing in bed was, their name, and what his favorite thing about them was. Sam was pretty sure this girl was the gymnast who wasn’t looking for anything serious because she had to stay focused if she wanted to make the olympic team.  
Dean had looked for her name at the Paris Summer Olympics, but he hadn’t said anything about knowing any of them, so Sam guessed that she didn’t make the cut.  
Either way, she had been difficult to distract. When she wasn’t screwing Dean, she paid him no mind at all. It drove him crazy, until eventually he wore her down and she agreed to take the day off for his birthday and “make it special.” Sam hated that sweater because he wasn’t sure if Dean had held on to it because it was warm and who gives up a perfectly good gift?, or because Dean had actually felt something for what’s-her-name.

“Truth or dare, Sammy?” Dean asked, breaking the silence. It’s immature, sure, but he thought it might be the only way to get a halfway honest answer out of Sam right now. Catch him off guard. 

Sam groaned, still waiting for Dean to settle into the bed so he could wrap himself around his brother, like a car around a telephone pole, just as wholly, just as violently. “Really, Dean?”

“Yes, really. You’re a teenager. You’re supposed to be all for this stuff. Truth or dare?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dare.”

“My little renegade,” he said, reaching over and ruffling Sam’s long hair. 

Sam ducked out of his brother’s reach and shot him a look that quite plainly said “quit it, if you’re fond of that hand.”

“Okay,” Dean stalled, looking around the room for inspiration. “I dare you… to… um.”

“Why’d you want to play if you didn’t have any ideas?”

While he thought, Dean got comfortable, slouching back with both hands behind his head, legs splayed out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He was on top of the covers, so Sam grabbed the comforter from his half of the bed and pulled it so the decorative floral pattern covered him from the neck down. He hitched his leg up over Dean's hip, with one arm collapsed underneath him, his head, torso, and other arm touching every inch of the expanse of Dean's chest that they could manage. 

Naturally, Dean thought of a dare just as soon as Sam got comfortable. “Do a handstand.”

Sam curled up in a smaller ball against Dean’s chest. “Ugh, I don’t wanna get out of bed.”

“Shouldn’t’ve picked ‘dare’ then.”

“Truth.”

“Doesn’t work like that, baby.”

“Please?”

“Okay,” Dean obliged, since, really, the truth is all he wanted to get out of this game. Still, it would have been nice to see Sammy’s shirt ride up and show off that toned little stomach he had. Quite the little twink, Sam was growing up to be. “How come you’re always wearing my clothes these days?”

 _Because they make me feel like you own me._ Sam thinks. _Also, they smell like you._ “Because they don’t fit.” Which was also true.

“What sense does that make?”

“They’re bigger on me, not all tight and awful like my clothes are.” Dean just stared at him, so he kept talking. “I look better in them. You can see less of me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Truth or dare, Dean?”

“Truth. I ain’t getting up either.” His hands unfolded from behind his head, one arm completely around Sam's shoulders, the other hand resting lightly on Sam's elbow, thumb drifting lazily over his upper arm. It felt good, like something a mother would do, or a lover.

“Do you think I’m… good looking? You know, attractive?”

Dean smiled fondly. “Got your eye on someone? Want to make sure you’re not an ugly, gangly mess of limbs and long hair?”

“Something like that.”

“This have anything to do with that girl who invited you to that awful party?”

“The party wasn’t awful,” he evades.

“Sam, you came home and fucking collapsed on the doorstep. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, that’s a pretty clear sign of a good time." Sam felt Dean's laughter more than he heard it.

"So, am I?"

Dean leaned back a bit to take in more of Sam. Sam with his tiny waist and long legs; jutting bones and strong arms; wide hazel eyes and goofy smile; still young enough to be more or less hairless. Sam, yeah. Sam was hot. Dean would do terrible, terrible things to a boy like Sam. To Sam, given the chance.

"You ain't half bad. You're definitely leaving the 'baby giraffe' phase. Growing into yourself a little more, you know? Get yourself a little confidence and girls'll be falling all over you."

Sam blushed. "Truth," he said before Dean could ask. 

Dean bit back his question for a minute. If he went about this even a little bit the wrong way, Sam would go off and sulk and whatever rising tension he could feel in the space between him and his brother would deflate immediately. "Are you even, um, interested... in girls?"

Sam shook his head a little. "Not really, no."

The flaw in his question became obvious then. Did Sam mean he was gay? Or he just didn't care about that sort of thing? How old was he when he started looking at girls? Thirteen? Maybe younger? "Guys?"

"A few have, erm, caught my attention, year. But I've never, um."

"It's fun," is all Dean offered, while Sam stared hard at Dean's chest, avoiding eye contact, a blush of his own rising to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. "Truth."

"God, we're lazy." 

Dean just hummed a response, his eyes slipping shut.

"What are your nightmares about?"

"Ghosts, monsters, demons. You know, usual gig."

"What about the worst ones. Like the other night?" There was some movement on Dean's chest, like Sam was worrying his lower lip between his teeth. God, Sam's lips were always cracked to all hell these days. Sometimes they split open when he smiled. 

"You heard that, didja?"

"Hard not to, you were only a few feet away."

"Torture."

"Your worst nightmares are about being tortured?"

"Nah, those aren't so bad. It's when I've gotta hear or watch some bastard carve you up and tell me about all the things they'd do to you, they just... I-"

Dean actually gagged once, fist coming up to his mouth.

"Hey," Sam said, reaching forward and pulling Dean closer, if that was even possible. "It's okay. I'm fine."

"What happened at that party," Dean asked weakly.

"I'd rather not."

"Okay, truth or dare?"

"Dare," Sam said, hoping to escape the question.

"I dare you to give a one-man-show reenactment of the party."

"Dean."

"I'm serious," he insists. "If somebody did something to you, anything, you need to tell me."

"No one _did_ anything to me. I just... overestimated what I could handle," Sam said with an air of truth to his words.

Unsatisfied, but knowing better than to push, Dean said, "Okay, your turn."

"Truth or dare?" He asked. 

"Truth."

"Have you ever been in love?"

"No."

Sam wasn't sure how to feel about this answer, provided so quickly and without thought. It hurt a little, knowing that Dean hadn't even considered the possibility that he might love him. But, really, why would he? Sam should just be glad Dean didn't regale a long-winded tale about one of the many girls he'd come across in recent years. 

"Have you?"

"That's not how this game works, Dean."

"Truth or dare?"

"Dare."

Sam probably thought himself clever, tossing 'dares' into the ring when he wanted to avoid answering questions. Dean, without any hesitation in his low voice, said, "Kiss me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, a detailed summary of the weird habits of all your former roommates, and concerns all welcome.


	5. Chapter 4

The kiss was rough and quick, a sharp bite of Dean’s teeth against Sam’s lower lip, effectively splitting it. The taste of blood, a trace of Sam’s tongue around Dean’s mouth, and a hand in Sam’s hair. 

And then it’s over. 

The game stops after that question. Neither of them are sure who falls asleep first, but they wake up a few hours later to the sound of a truck downshifting on the highway outside their window. The kiss is not brought up again.

 

Weeks pass and Dean has a sauce on the stove that he's been perfecting for days. 

"Quite the housewife," Sam teases when he first sees his brother in an apron. 

"Shut up."

Sam takes a seat on the kitchen table, legs swinging. "Sorry, it's just, I've never seen you like this."

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Sammy. I'm a man of many mysteries. Aloof, if you will."

"Liar. I know you more than I know myself."

Dean stage gasps. "We'll have to put that to the test, little brother."

"With what? The Newlyweds games?"

Dean turns back to his sauce and stirs it even though he just did before Sam walked in and really doesn't need to. Honestly, he has to turn away to hide the blush creeping onto his face, but he knows Sam can see the redness of his ears even from behind. "Plans tonight?"

"Don't think so. Why? You got something special planned?"

Dean turns around pretending to look horrified. "Special? Special doesn't even begin to cut it. Tonight, my boy, we're having spaghetti. With." He takes a dramatic pause. "Mary Winchester's world famous sauce."

"World famous, huh?"

"Kansas famous. Whatever. She used to make it for the neighbor. This batty old lady a few houses down. Leena or something like that. Mom liked to think they were friends, but even at four I knew Leena or whatever was only in it for the sauce."

"Wonderful anecdote. But I actually just remembered I promised Abbie that I would help her study for our math test. I'm supposed to be there around five."

If Dean's face falls, Sam tries not to notice it. He feels guilty, sure, but he knows he can't make it through dinner with Dean tonight, or any night. Not without giving himself away. Dad? Dad would take the lies Sam spins about not feeling well or having the flu. Hell, he could overlook it entirely, or excuse it away, chalking it up to a growth spurt or just making some wise ass remark about it and then choose not to worry about it. It's Sam, after all. Sam's a little unsteady, but overall a rock. Well, maybe not like Dean is. But, you know. He's good enough. Perfectly adequate. And Dad would like to keep that idealized version of Sam over the truth any day. 

"Oh, okay. Well, I'll leave some in the fridge for you and you can have some when you get home. Or bring it to school for lunch?" 

There's a hopefulness in Dean's voice. He's as close to begging for Sam's approval as he'll ever be. But even underneath that, there's a note of concern. Dean knows damn well that Sam hasn't packed a lunch for school since middle school. Now that he's thinking about it, the summer before high school was really when all this came about. Not that there's anything. Sam's fine. He's great. Feels great (except when he doesn't), looks... well, better than he used to. Everything's a-okay, nothing to be concerned about, swell, even. 

"Sure, Dean. That sounds great. Thanks."

Dean stirs the sauce yet again. "Alright, well, I'm just gonna go upstairs and get a nap in. I'm dead tired."

Sam nods and swallows the lie. Dean just needs away from him right now. Something's changed. Never before did they need time apart, but now sometimes Dean can't even stand to look at Sam, be in the same room as him. Usually, he goes out to a bar or something. But today it's only three in the afternoon, and Dean is still aiming for some semblance of normalcy. He doesn't go to the bar every night, and if he's going out more than usual, he goes to a different bar every few nights. Becoming a regular sounds nice, but really it's just a sign that he might have a bit of a problem himself. Sam's considered calling him out on his drinking, but who is he to judge? Plus, Dean's drinking can't even touch Dad's. 

Realizing he got lost in thought, Sam shakes his head a little and looks around, only to see that Dean's gone to bed already. Sam grabs the cellphone he and Dean share and takes it outside to call Abbie's house and beg for refuge for a few hours. 

Abbie's mom answers. "Hello?"

"Buenos dias, senora Ruiz," Sam tries in broken Spanish. "Yo necesito Abbie?"

"Si, si, si." Abbie's mom must pull the phone away from her ear, but still her shout of her daughter's name is loud and clear as if she were standing right next to Sam. A little quieter, Sam hears his own name and then Abbie's talking a mile a minute. 

"...and I was just telling her you'd probably call tonight. You know, you call almost every night. And I've asked her to just let me get the phone so you don't have to embarrass yourself trying to speak Spanish with my mother, who knows english, mind you..."

"Hey," Sam barks. "I do not embarrass myself with Spanish. I'm impressed I even know enough to get your mom to pass the phone off."

"Like I was just saying, mama knows English just fine."

"I know she does, but I also know all of you prefer to speak Spanish in the house."

"So what's up? I know you didn't call just to talk about language preferences."

"Can I come over tonight? I need to skirt my brother for a few hours."

"I thought you and your brother were close? Are you fighting?"

"No, it's not like that. I just know he's getting a little exhausted putting up with me as much as he is. We're used to having a few more distractions than we have right now. I'm hell to live with."

"I doubt that. Maybe he just needs to be a little more patient."

"He's not the problem. I promise. My brother is amazing. I just wanna give him some space."

"I have a soccer game tonight at four. You gonna come watch?"

"Sure. I'll walk down to the school in half an hour."

"Mama can come pick you up after she drops me off. I need to be there a little earlier than everyone else."

"I don't want to put her ou-"

"Nonsense. She'll be there in twenty to thirty."

"Thanks, Ab."

"No problem. If you want to sit through a soccer game, who am I to stand in your way?"

Sam flips the phone shut and goes back inside. Not sure what to do with himself, he starts cleaning up the kitchen a little. Cans into the recycling, not without reading the labels for the nutritional information, spices back in the cabinets, silverware washed and back in the drawer. By the time he was done, a car honked outside. 

Despite Abbie's insistence that her mother spoke English, she and Sam rode to the school in silence after the initial greeting. Maybe that was Sam's fault. Whatever.

Sam spent most of Abbie's soccer game alternating between listening to her mom shout angrily in Spanish at the ref and zoning out. He found himself having trouble keeping his hands still. His throat itched, or maybe it felt like a piece was missing, like there was a gap just behind his tongue that only his fingers could bridge. It was animalistic. Almost like instinct. He needed food. But he kept sipping the water Abbie's mom had brought him and telling himself he had to wait until later. 

Abbie came running over, cheeks flushed, glowing with sweat, after a victory. Sam couldn't help but think that another person, a better person than he, would have thought she looked beautiful. "Did you see that second goal? God, Jenn was amazing, don't you think, Sam?"

"Yeah, it was great."

"You okay?"

"Also great. We're going back to yours, right?"

Abbie nodded. Her silence was alarming. Abbie never shut up once she got used to someone. And she and Sam had gotten close in the last few weeks. Close enough that she might catch on soon. But she totally wouldn't, because there's nothing wrong. Sam is fine. If there was something wrong, he'd look different. It's not like he thought he was fat or anything. That would mean he had an eating disorder or something (he googled it). And that's insane. He just thinks he can be better. And this not eating thing will make him better. Until he fucks up, but there's always the backup plan. He needs to stop thinking about it. 

"Did you do your homework already?" Sam asks as they get into the car. Abbie takes the front seat, leaving Sam alone in the back of the minivan. 

"I finished it earlier. Why? Need help with something?"

"No. I finished mine, too. I just don't know what we're gonna do when we get back to your house."

Abbie's mom says, "Dinner soon."

"We can listen to music in my room or something. I can play 'Come on, Eileen' until it annoys you."

"Twice will be enough."

Abbie gasps. "Rude. Just for that, I'll make you dance with me to it."

 

Diana greets them at the front door, wagging her tail and throwing a cloud of fur off of herself. Abbie and Sam head straight upstairs. 

"I'm gonna take a shower really quick. The bookshelf is yours to peruse." She practically skips out of the room. 

The top two shelves are entirely vinyls and tapes. The bottom three are books. He pulls out a Nirvana tape and a book to hold open in his lap and pretend to read. The words wobble a little when he does take a moment to concentrate on them. He crosses his eyes and lets the words get blurry and the pressure build just behind the bridge of his nose. He appreciates the pain of it. 

He looks up, eyes still crossed, when he hears the door open up. 

"You okay?" Abbie, wrapped in a light green towel with leaves printed onto it, asks.

Looking straight again, Sam replies, "You keep asking that."

"And I'm gonna keep asking until you answer honestly, which you haven't been. Because you look like shit Sam and you're on the outs with your brother and your concentration sucks. So tell me what's wrong so we can move on with our night."

"Nothing's wrong." Sam's voice is quiet and far away. Abbie glares at him until he elaborates with, "It's just... I think you're just getting used to me. This is what I'm always like, but the 'wow, Sam's great,' idealized version of me is falling away and all you're left with is just plain me."

"You're wrong. Give me a minute to get dressed and I'll show you."

Abbie hurries around her bed to the dresser against the far wall. He's not sure where his eyes should be, so he crosses them again and looks down at the book. 

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"I'm naked, Sam."

"I know."

"A girl is naked and in the same room as you and you're reading a book about vampires?"

Sam shrugs. "I'm just looking at the book. And I have a headache. I dunno. Would you prefer I watch you?"

"No. Maybe. I'm just confused."

"Me too."

Abbie jumps into her jeans and then kicks each leg as she buttons them. It's cute. Sam knows he's supposed to think that. She comes to sit down on the bed next to Sam, very close, and says, "Kiss me."

And all Sam can think about is how different she looks and sounds and feels compared to how Dean looked and sounded and felt when he whispered those same words to Sam. And with the image of Dean's bottom lip, fat from kissing, and big hands, warm and spanning all of Sam in just two handfuls, and voice deep and rough and so adult, since when did he sound like that and leave Sam behind to be young and vulnerable. Dean was never supposed to leave him. Dean promised. He promised to always be there...

"Sam. Sam!" Abbie has her hands on both his shoulders. She has pulled back from him, her eyes panicked. There's the sounds of fast, shallow breathing. It takes Sam a minute to realize it's him, hyperventilating. "It's okay. Shh. It's okay. You're okay, Sam."

"My brother," he chokes out. 

"Your brother? What?" Then recognition hits her. Sam can't help but think 'thank god,' but she looks angry. "Your brother. Does he... does he do this, Sam?"

Sam shakes his head frantically, his breathing picking up again. 

"Okay. Okay, breathe Sam. Just breathe. Okay? I'm sorry. I just don't know what else you could have meant. That's it. It's okay. You're okay."

Sam hangs his head, feeling small. Or feeling too big for the space he takes up. He wants to be nothing. In a quiet voice he says, "I just want my brother."

He know he sounds like a little kid, but at that, she lets go of him. "Okay, let my mom take you home. Come on."

Abbie goes to the door and waits for him with her hand on the door knob. "Come on," she says again, her voice, thankfully, conveying encouragement, not irritation. Sam gets up and follows her with his hands wrapped around his middle. 

"I'm sorry," he says as he passes her. 

"Don't be."

 

The car ride is quiet. Abbie rides shotgun again and speaks to her mother in hushed Spanish. Sam chooses not to listen to it. He pauses outside the door to the house they're squatting in. He's not sure what to tell Dean when he walks through that door, but he knows he looks a mess and Dean will want some kind of explanation. 

Then the door swings open on it's own and Dean, looking behind himself, almost runs right into Sam.

"Jesus, Sammy. Scared me. What are you doing home so early?"

And Sam, feeling too big and too small and too young and too old, bursts into tears. He burrows himself into Dean's chest as he hears Abbie and her mom pull away, knowing Sam is safe in his brother's arms. 

"Okay. Okay, inside," Dean says gently as he backs into the house with Sam still very attached to him. 

They linger just inside the door until Sam cries himself out. It takes maybe a minute, but feeling Dean's hands on his back and the smell of Dean nearly overwhelming him, and he's done crying. His cheeks are red, ashamed of himself, embarrassed, but glad for Dean's presence. Glad he caught Dean before he left, because god only knows what Sam would have done if he'd come back to an empty house. 

"What's wrong?" Dean finally asks. 

"Nothing."

"No bullshit."

"Nothing's wrong. I dunno. I just... panicked. And I wanted to come home."

Dean just kinda nods, like this answer is enough. Maybe he knows that's the best he's gonna get out of Sam right now. "Alright. C'mon, kid. How's about we just go to bed. Screw reality, let's just go to sleep, huh?"

Sam nods and the next thing he knows he's clinging onto Dean, arm across Dean's chest, on his side while Dean lays half sitting up against the wall behind the mattress. And, for tonight, that's enough. It's more. It's everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, stories of the times you've played truth or dare, and concerns all welcome. also, sorry i was too lazy to include the accents in the spanish.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam wakes up and decides to lie there a minute and take in the room. With his eyes still closed he knows that Dean is awake beside him and the doors and windows are all closed. He isn't sure about the curtains or if Dean is mad.

"I know you're awake," Dean says.

Sam rolls over onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, taking in Dean's posture in his peripheral. His arms are crossed tightly, his legs are drawn out and also crossed at the ankle, and he's still wearing boots.

"I am," Sam admits.

"So?"

"Sew buttons."

"Not funny, Sam."

"Come on. Puns are the height of humor."

Dean throws himself to his feet, walks to the end of the bed, and turns so Sam can only see his profile. Sam chooses not to move, like maybe Dean won't be able to see him if he just holds still enough. But who is he kidding, Dean has always been able to see him. And isn't that just the trouble.

"What's going on with you?"

"Nothing's-"

Dean whips around, placing his hands on either side of Sam's legs, leaning in, and practically growls out, "Bullshit."

Sam sits up, brings his knees to his chest. He wonders if this is the first time he's ever pulled away from Dean instead of leaning closer. He wonders if this is what their lives are now.

Dean must be thinking along the same lines, because he softens. Reaches forward and smacks the side of Sam's knee lightly. "What is this? Since when do you do this?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sammy." It sounds almost like a question, like he's not sure this is Sammy anymore.

Sam waits. He knows the silence is driving his brother up a wall, but for one, he can't think of anything to say, and for two, he's sure if he keeps quiet long enough Dean will break. And this will result in either Dean being gentle and encouraging and maybe, just maybe, Sam will be able to talk to him, or, it's gonna get him hit. And Sam wants both in equal measure.

Dean walks away, paces the length of the room twice, turns back around with his hand over his mouth.

"I don't- I don't know what this is. I don't know what's gotten into you. I don't know what I'm supposed to do to- to help you, Sammy, I just don't know."

"I don't need help."

Dean laughs. "Dad, Dad would ignore all of this," he gestures at Sam, still curled up in a ball on the bed. "He'd look the other way, tell me you've always been a little emotional or whatever, but this isn't you. This, you've been erratic and angry and, and just sad, Sam, and I can't let you keep doing whatever it is you're doing to deal with it."

"I'm fine."

"Get undressed."

Sam had imagined Dean saying those words to him before. With a different tone, in a different place, in another life, maybe. He'd imagined it possessive or sweet or desperate. With Dean standing in front of him now, it felt clinical. His mouth catches up before his brain does, managing to get out a quiet, "What?"

"I mean it, Sam," Dean says threateningly. He moves forward and grabs at the bottom of Sam's shirt, pulling it up and looking down at Sam expectantly.

Bewildered, Sam obliges. He pushes Dean's hand away and climbs off the bed, tugging his shirt off as he goes. He keeps his eyes on Dean, who is suddenly incapable of looking at him, as he undoes his belt and pulls it out of his jeans with a snap. Without the belt, his pants fall a little on their own until he clambers out of them as well.

"That's enough," Dean says, looking back at Sam again.

Sam feels completely naked, though he is not. He wants to cross his arms over his stomach, wants to curl up again and feel safe, not like he's being analyzed.

Dean guides Sam closer to him, hands roving his arms, his chest. He gets down on a knee to check Sam's thighs, continues looking down his legs. Dean turns Sam around, hands still searching. Sam tries to stand still, straight. Make himself look less like, well, him. He tries to will Dean to not see what he sees, pleads in his mind that Dean can neither see the recent changes to Sam's body, nor the changes still needing to be made.

Eventually, Dean seems satisfied. And also, more confused.

"Get dressed."

As Sam hurriedly yanks his clothes back on, he can't help but feel he's disappointed Dean somehow.

Dean flops back onto the bed, runs a hand over his face, and stares up at nothing. Unsure of what else to do, Sam just stands there, waiting.

"I thought-" Dean starts. The thought goes uncompleted. Dean sets his mouth in a straight line, leaves his hands together on his chest, and continues staring.

Sam doesn't dare move. He watches. He waits. He worries he's going to spend the rest of his life rooted to the spot, too confused and terrified and embarrassed to move.

That is, until he notices a twitch of Dean's hand. His nails, though kept short and practical, are clawing at the skin around his thumb nail on his left hand. There's blood. Dean is anxious, and goddamn, Sam loves him so much and doesn't want to see his brother like this.

He vows to fix this. To get through the night and start hiding everything better and needing Dean less, because this, this was cruel to be doing to Dean. To see him this wound up about something, Sam finds the courage to move. He crawls up onto the bed and sits just behind Dean, sliding his hands underneath Dean's head, and scooting forward so it rest in his lap.

"You thought..." Sam encourages, gently scratching his nails through Dean's hair.

Dean closes his eyes, takes a moment to breathe and just enjoy the feel of Sam. "I thought- and I mean, I did research on it, I wasn't just being crazy and jumping to conclusions, but I thought... that something was really wrong," he finishes lamely.

"What do you mean?"

"You- I- um. I'm no good at this, Sammy," Dean says, sitting up and turning around to look at Sam. "But, you know, I was a teenager once, and I thought, I got scared, the way you've been acting, that maybe you were, you know," he drops his eyes and says, slowly, "hurting... yourself."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, I'm not."

"No, yeah, that's um. Good, Sam. That's really good. But you know, the thing is, is even though I didn't see anything, I'm not sure that you're not."

"You're not sure that I'm not hurting myself?"

Dean rubs the back of his neck before finally looking up again at Sam. He looks lost, wounded. "Sammy, you're the kinda kid who would."

The remark throws him off so much that it takes a lot for Sam to keep the iciness out of his voice, and even then, he doesn't quite manage. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Dean back tracks, physically pulling away from Sam. "I just, I just mean that, Sam look at me."

He does.

"If there was ever a kid who was gonna put himself through hell, cause himself pain, if he thought it meant sparing other people from it, it'd be you. And I don't know what you're trying to protect me from, but, Sam, I can help. Please let me help."

"I don't need any help."

"You do, though, Sam. And whatever it is, I can handle it. It's my job to take care of you, and I've been fucking up lately, but I can help you."

Sam shakes his head, rises wearily from the bed and says, "I think I'm gonna take the couch tonight." He leaves the room without another word.

 

 

 

Unsure of what to do, Sam makes a few laps around the kitchen before deciding it's too risky to try anything here tonight. Though, god, does he want to just eat and eat until he feels like a whole person again.

He pours a glass of water and downs it in one go. He listens to the sounds of the house, trying to track if Dean is moving, but nothing sounds like footsteps, just the creak of old pipes.

He thinks about calling Abbie, but after the fiasco of a day they had... yesterday? earlier that day? Sam has no idea what time it is. He pulls out his phone. He must not have slept long, it's only midnight. He thumbs down his recent call list looking for somebody he could talk to. About anything, just a conversation. Something to make him feel like a real boy.

The line rings twice.

"It's late."

"I know, sir, sorry."

John Winchester sighs on the other end of the call. Sam thinks he hears papers rustle and something get set down on a table. "It's only late there. Still ten o'clock here."

"Right."

"What's on your mind, Sam?"

"Nothing, I- how's the case going?"

"It's going. You and Dean alright?"

"We're fine."

"Well, you're not one just to pick up the phone and chat, here, Sam. Why don't you tell me what's going on so I can get back to work?"

"Nothing's going on. We're fine. I, um. I'm sorry for calling."

Sam goes to hang up the phone when he hears his name.

"Sammy?" John asks again.

"Yeah, Dad?"

"I need you to be straight with me, boy. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir."

Very clearly, John says, "Do you need me?"

"Dad, I said we're fine."

"No, Sam. Do _you_ need me _?"_

"No, sir."

"Alright. You have a good night. Be good."

"Sure. Good night, Dad."


	7. Chapter 7

The last place Sam wants to be the next day is school. Sleeping on the couch left him with a crick in his neck and he's drinking so much water to stave off hunger pains that he's surprised he hasn't drowned. His backpack feels like it weighs more than he does, like maybe it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. As he takes his seat in his afternoon math class, having no idea where his morning went, he's a little nervous to take it off, like maybe he'll float away without it.

Abbie doesn't look at up from the paper on her desk. She's writing, maybe last minute finishing some homework for this class or another, her pink pen with a tuft of tiny pink feathers at the top is moving hurriedly across the page. Sam stops watching.

Sam spends the period counting. It's not quite math, but it's close enough. He counts his breaths. Inhale, hold one two three, exhale. Inhale, hold two two three, exhale. After fifty-two breaths he starts to get dizzy and doesn't feel any calmer, so he stops and starts counting dots on the panel ceiling above him. 

The bell rings while Sam is still counting. He swears only a few minutes could have passed, but as his classmates begin shuffling out of the door he figures maybe a whole forty minutes did pass when he wasn't looking.

Abbie catches up with him just outside the door.

"Sam?" She sounds timid, which is so unlike her.

He just stares back, not sure where his voice went or if it's planning on making a return. 

"Listen, I uh. Can you come over after school today? You can take the bus home with me. We just, I need to talk to you."

Sam nods, already having gone home with her a few times, he knows where to meet her and when, so again, words escape him and he decides to turn and walk to his next class.

The rest of the day passes as uneventfully as his morning. He's only barely aware of even being there. When the final bell rings, Sam makes his way down to Abbie's locker, where normally he'd see her hurriedly switching out textbooks and throwing them into her Hootie & The Blowfish bag, today she's standing, perfectly calm, against the locker above hers, reviewing what looked like notes from one of her classes.

"Ready?" She asks. 

Again, he just nods. Abbie pulls her hair into a ponytail and puts the hood of her sweatshirt up. From a million miles away, Sam registers this to mean that it's raining, but he just keeps walking.

The bus ride is quiet. Well, not quiet. There's the hum of two dozen other people all speaking at the same time, but no words are passed between him and Abbie. She just stares out the bus window, probably placing bets on which raindrop will make it from the top of the window to the bottom first. Sam's got the aisle seat of a two-seater, which is uncomfortable and he has to hold on every time the bus turns so he doesn't fall into the aisle or onto Abbie. Eight stops pass before Abbie nudges him on the arm and they climb off the bus. She runs the length of her driveway to avoid getting rained on too much, but Sam walks, suddenly anxious about what it is that's keeping Abbie so quiet. 

No one's home. Sam wonders where Abbie's mom is. Maybe running errands. Abbie takes his hand and guides him upstairs. Diana is sleeping on the landing and only lifts her head up in greeting before resuming her nap.

"Sit," Abbie says, sounding an awful lot like the way one would speak to a dog. But Sam is nothing if not obedient. He drops his backpack, pulls out the desk chair, and sits backwards in it, facing the room, chin resting on the back of it. 

"Speak," he says with the same clipped tone.

Abbie pulls her hair out of its ponytail and sits cross legged on the edge of her bed. She keeps her eyes on her hands as they run across the gold embroidered flowers on her comforter. Finally, she looks up at him. He raises his eyebrows, trying to prompt her.

"I'm scared for you," she manages.

He rolls his eyes. "Ab, listen, I had a late night and I'm really not-"

"I'm scared for you," she repeats, "and that's an awful feeling, because I'm not even sure why."

"Then maybe that means you don't have to be."

"I made a list," she says, looking around for her backpack before realizing it's still slung over her shoulder. She pulls out an English worksheet that's been folded into quarters. On the back is short lines of pink ink in the shape of a list. Sam wonders if this is what she was working on in math class.

Abbie moves to hand Sam the list, but hesitates halfway there. She pulls it back into her lap and reads it over, mouthing the words as she goes. 

"You made a list?"

"Of what it could be."

"Of what... what?"

She smiles a little. "Something's wrong. And I made a list of things it could be. And I started planning out what we could do about it on the other side here and, well. Sam, it would be easiest if you told me what's wrong, but if you won't... or maybe can't, well, I'll just keep going through lists until I guess it right. Okay?"

"What even makes you think anything's wrong?"

"You've been acting different. And there was the party, and, um, the other night, and just, well. I thought maybe I could be of some assistance."

"Listen, what happened yesterday, I'm really sorry about that. Sometimes I just get stuck in my head and..."

"I'm not looking for an apology, Sam. I just want to know what's up. Okay? So just bear with me. And please don't laugh if I'm like wildly off with like all of these, it's just a first draft."

"What if you guess it right and I tell you you're wrong?"

"I'm trusting you not to do that."

"Maybe you shouldn't trust me."

"You haven't given me reason not to. Just, Sam, please. I'm doing this for you, I swear. Now, this isn't going to be the easiest conversation of our lives, but it's the way it's gotta be. So, here we go." She looks down at the list in her hands, reading for far longer than necessary to just get the first line. "Now, I already mentioned this, but you didn't exactly say no, so, and I'm really sorry if I'm wrong, but anyway, I thought maybe you- your, um. Your brother was maybe doing things to you."

Sam laughs. He actually laughs. Because Abbie is so scared and nervous and talking a mile a minute, and she's accusing Dean of molesting Sam when Sam's the one who's sick in the head and wants nothing more than to be touched by his brother.

"I told you not to laugh," she pouts.

"I know, I know. Sorry. Um, no. It's not that."

"Good. Great, so, um. Are you gay?"

"Maybe," he says honestly. He's never really been attracted to anyone except Dean. Like, sure, girls smell pretty and look like, wow. But he thinks "sex" and he's picturing himself riding Dean's cock, which, let's face it, is pretty fucking gay.

"Oh." She sounds disappointed. "Well, is that what's been, um, bothering you?"

He shakes his head. "I've known for a, for a long time."

"I see. So it's something else. Let's see, um, are you depressed?"

"I don't think so?"

"Okay, we'll come back to that one. Do you have an eating disorder?"

"What?"

"I said no laughing. I'm just guessing, Sam, I dunno."

"Listen, Ab, I really gotta go. I appreciate all this concern and everything, but it's kinda none of your business."

She folds the list in her hands. "Aw, Sam, don't go. I'm just trying to- listen I just, I care about you and-"

"You shouldn't."

"What, care about you? Of course I should. Hell, half the time I think I'm half in love with you and-"

"I'm not your boyfriend."

"But you could be."

He laughs. "No, no I couldn't. You don't want me, Ab. You want someone normal."

"Whatever's wrong, it doesn't make you not normal."

"Maybe not. But everything else, everything you don't know, that does."

"Then tell me. Tell me what I don't know. Sam, this could be good for you. A real, honest to god friend. I can help."

Sam reaches down while she's speaking and grabs his bag. At her last sentence, he bristles, freezes long enough to snarl out, "I don't need help!"

Abbie throws her hands up in surrender. When she speaks, it's slow and quiet. "Okay. Okay, you don't need help. I'm sorry I-"

"No, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you. It's just, Dean had a conversation like this with me last night and I'm just, I'm really tired of other people telling me that I'm not okay. I am fine. I'm great. And I don't need anyone's help. So, listen, I'll just see you at school, alright?"

He moves toward the door but she beats him here. Her hand catches his wrist and she moves herself in front of the door. "Just, wait. It's raining. We can just listen to music or something and my mom can drive you home when she gets back."

"It's fine. I don't mind walking."

"Please don't go."

"Get out of my way, Abbie," he says, trying to shake his wrist free.

She puts a hand on his chest, goes up on her toes, and kisses him. It's fast. She seems to think better of it the second after she does it because she jumps back from him as though burned. 

"I'm sorry," she whispers, stepping out of his way so he can leave if he wants. 

Shocked, Sam just keeps standing there. His hand moves up absently to touch his lower lip. "I- I, uh."

"I'm sorry," she says again.

"No, it's. It's okay. I just, I have to go." He makes it into the hallway before he doubles back, pokes his head into Abbie's room, takes it in for what he knows to be the last time, and says, "Hey Ab? Next time someone tells you they're gay? Don't kiss them."

She nods at the floor, still standing precisely where he left her. 

"I'm not mad," he offers. "But this can't happen, okay?"

She nods again. He turns to go.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" He can't see her. Just Diana down on the landing, the hallway lined with framed pictures. He can tell she's crying when she speaks again.

"I hope you let someone help you. Just because you're a boy... I. I want you to be okay."

"I am," he promises. And then he's throwing himself down the stairs two at a time before she can say anything else. They won't recover from this, Sam is sure, but he can't help but think that it's better this way. One less person to hurt.


	8. Chapter 7

The walk home is freezing cold and soaking wet, but Sam doesn't notice. He's shivering, but it feels like when he was stoned with Dean, he knows he's supposed to be cold, but he can't quite find it in himself to feel it.

There aren't many cars on the road. Or maybe there are.

He's crying. Or maybe he's not. Maybe he just can't breathe. And every exhale sounds a little like when he sobbed out Dean's name the last time he got home from Abbie's house.

It's a long trek home. He passes the convenience store slowly. He has no cash on him, but he knows he can lift a few things without drawing attention to himself, if he really needed to, but he's so numbed out. He feels so  _good_. Like for once he's listening when his father told him, "Be good." Sure, he's soaked and miserable and just lost his only friend, but he's empty and he can feel it. 

Sam is marveling at the feeling when he turns into the driveway of the house, so he almost doesn't notice the Impala. Almost.

It looks beautiful, in rain like this. Like something out of a catalog. The trunk is open with two duffel bags neatly shoved in among the odds and ends of hunting gear. 

Sam lets himself into the house through the open front door and catches the end of a conversation.

"...should be back soon. He's got some girl he goes with, and hey, look, there he is," Dean says. Dean's sitting on the edge of the couch, lacing up his boots. John is in the kitchen, leaned up against the counter, one arm crossed across his chest and the other holding a beer.

"We're leaving," is all John says. He finishes the beer and the empty bottle in the sink. He's out the door before Sam can respond. Sam can hear the engine turn over out in the driveway and knows he only has a moment to gather himself and get gone or else John's going to leave him there.

"You look like shit," Dean says, standing and shrugging out of the flannel he's wearing over a t-shirt. He holds it out to Sam, but Sam can't seem to move. "Com'on, Sam. We've gotta go."

Dean walks over and looks at Sam like he's still looking for answers. He pulls Sam's shirt off over his head and helps him into the flannel, even buttoning it up for Sam. The shirt is warm. It smells like Dean.

"Said you liked wearing my clothes, but you could have just asked. Didn't need to risk pneumonia here." He tries to smile. "I've got all your things in the car. Come on."

Dean puts his arm around Sam's shoulders and guides him into the backseat of the car.

 

Dean drives. He and John talk occasionally. They debate better routes, Dean asks about the last case, asks about the new case that is bringing them further east to what might be a witch operating on the shore of Maryland.

Sam tunes it out. He tunes everything out. Pretends to be asleep when his dad and brother stop for dinner. Actually falls asleep while they're in the restaurant. Wakes up in the parking lot of a motel.

He fumbles his way out of the car in the dark. His shoulders hurt. Maybe from the way he was sleeping, but they hurt even before that. All the way down to his bones.

The door straight ahead is propped open with the security bar instead of the chain on the door. Sam approaches it slowly, not wanting to walk into the wrong motel room by accident. For the second time that day, Sam overhears a conversation about him.

"...don't know what's going on with him, but, Dad-"

"Listen, Dean, you always were a little overprotective of your brother. I'm sure Sam's fine. He's a teenager. This is what they're like for a while. He'll grow out of it."

"But what if he doesn't? What if this is something serious like-"

"What if it's not? Give him space, let him sort himself out. He's a smart kid, he'll be okay."

"But, Dad-"

"Enough Dean. I want you to listen and listen good. If Sam's in trouble, he's gotta get himself out of it. Now, I'm sure he'll outgrow this little angst ridden hormonal teenage crap in his own time. You did."

"Dad, I don't think-"

"Then stop thinkin'. It never was your strong suit. Now I'm going to bed. I'll be gone by morning. There's three hundred bucks on the counter over there. Don't let Sam sleep in the car all night."

There's some movement from inside the room, but no one speaks again. Sam is just considering going back to spend the night in the Impala when the door flies open.

"How much did you hear?" Dean asks, flicking off the light and shutting the door behind him.

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one with a match. He offers one to Sam, who accepts, though it makes his chest ache for the night they shotgunned smoke on the roof. That was only a few weeks ago, at most two months, but it feels like another lifetime. It feels like a time when things were less hopelessly out of control. Though, if he thinks about it, if he really thinks about it, even that night, things were starting to spin out.

Dean lights a match, cups the flame with his hand, and reaches out toward Sam. Sam hurriedly puts the cigarette in his mouth and pulls until the end is lit. Dean shakes the match out and they smoke in silence for a minute.

"You didn't answer," Dean says.

"No, I didn't."

Dean nods, his cigarette already half gone.

"If you have something you want to say to me..." Sam starts, but can't manage to finish.

When Dean huffs a laugh a cloud of smoke escapes his mouth. It's beautiful. Sam kinda wants to bite it.

"I really think I'm the one who should be saying that."

"Dad kept cutting you off. Say. Say what you wanted to say in there."

Dean takes a step closer to Sam, but keeps his eyes on what's left of his cigarette. "You're hurting. And I don't know what to do."

Sam takes a long drag to think out his reply. The smoke makes him feel dizzy, but it is something he can put in his mouth and still feel empty afterward, so he decides he likes it.

"Who says you have to do anything?"

"If you were bleeding, I wouldn't just leave you there to sort yourself out. I'd find the source, apply pressure, stitch you up, bring you to a hospital if I had to. I'd do something. Why is this any different?"

"Because I'm not bleeding, Dean."

He laughs again, bitter, and flicks his cigarette to the parking lot.

"What else?"

"What do you mean?"

"What else did you want to say to Dad?"

There's a stone wall about waist high over at the edge of the parking lot. Sam hadn't noticed it until Dean nods to it and they make their way over there. They sit with their legs touching from hip to knee. Sam finishes his cigarette and stubs it out next to him.

"What else," he asks again.

"When I was your age, a little older, but your age, I had a lot of help. We were closer with Bobby still and I had this girlfriend and then I got sent off to Sonny's and well, I had a lot of people on my side. They got me through, you know, whatever, and..."

A long silence follows. Dean's voice sounds like heartbreak when he speaks again. "And all you've got is me."

Sam takes his brother's hand. Maybe he's too old for this, but he takes Dean's hand in both of his, runs his thumb along the back of it. For the first time in what feels like a long time, he speaks honestly. "You are all I've ever wanted. And all I've ever needed."

"I don't know what to do."

"Trust me when I say that I'm okay."

Dean shakes his head. It's weird not being able to see him, to look in his eyes, but the way they're sitting, all Sam gets is profile. "You know I can't do that, Sammy."

"I'm sorry."

Dean's mouth twitches toward a smile. "You keep stealing my lines tonight." He pulls his hand away and shoves them in the pockets of his jacket. "'S cold. We should get inside."

Sam nods, but neither of them move.

Then, something beautiful and something tragic happens all at once. Dean turns to look at Sam, and Sam turns too. They're so close. It would be so easy to just lean a little and close the gap.

Nobody moves. Even the night around them seems to have come to a standstill. 

"I love you, Sammy."

It's everything Sam could have ever wanted.

It's not enough.

It hurts to breathe.

"I love you, too."

Sam moves forward just an inch, barely anything. Dean's eyes flick down to Sam's lips.

And nothing happens. Dean hops down from the wall they're on and holds his hand out to help Sam down. Sam ignores it and they walk into the motel room with a foot of space between them.

Sam is starving, but he's starting to realize that there's nothing in the world that could fill him except Dean. And Dean isn't willing to move that last inch.


	9. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know if this is more graphic than previous chapters have been. it feels like it is, but it's also been a long time since i've read the first five or so chapters of this fic, so, i dunno, warnings for things tagged.

Sam wakes up alone in bed. The motel has two beds, so there's no reason for him and Dean to share one. John's been gone eleven days. It's been about that long since Sam and Dean have really said anything to one another. The motel is far enough away from school that Sam has to get driven on Dean's way to work. John left Dean the Impala then ran out on some hunt with a guy named George. Sam guesses George drove, and he also guesses it's driving John crazy.

It's early still. Sam can't tell from looking outside, it's the time of year where it's dark most of the time, but there's a feeling in the air. The stillness of before dawn. 

He gets up and takes a shower. The water doesn't get particularly warm and Sam is hardly in the mood to shower. It's just another thing he has to do. He sits under the half-hearted stream of water for what he estimates to be fifteen minutes, then gets out, and towels off. Even the thought of anything more than that exhausts him.

The jeans he pulls on are the only ones left that fit him, and even then, they only just. They also probably need to be washed. The shirt is his. It swims on him like Dean's clothes did, though Sam barely notices. A few weeks ago, if he saw himself now, he'd be impressed. Instead, he's just tired.

It takes until he's entirely ready for school and staring blankly at Dean's sleeping form to realize that it is Saturday. He could have slept in. Sam drops his school bag at the foot of the bed, but keeps staring at Dean. There's something soothing in watching his brother breathe. 

There's a moment when Sam is sure he's about to climb into bed with Dean. A moment when things are okay between them and they can just lie entangled in one another for hours. A moment of normal.

But Sam gave up all that. Maybe he didn't know that was the price at the time, but he knows now. He made no friends at this new school, has pulled away from Dean entirely, is completely alone, and he's better for it. Or, at least, he thinks so.

"Sam?" Dean says sleepily.

"Yeah?"

"What're you doin'?"

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

Dean rolls over with a grunt and looks at Sam still standing there. "Come to bed."

Despite their recent distance, it aches to say, "I have homework."

Dean nods a little, his eyes slipping shut again. Within moments, his breath evens out again.

It hurts to know that if Dean had been more awake he wouldn't have told Sam to get in bed with him. He would have remembered that that's just not the way things are between them anymore.

Sam makes his way over to the kitchenette on the other side of the room. He opens the fridge and stares at its contents. He knows, already, that there are 2784 calories worth of food in here, but it makes him feel calm to run through and count it all again. By the time he is finished counting, Dean is stirring again.

"You hungry?"

Sam tries not to hear the glimmer of hope in Dean's voice. "No, I was just seeing if we need to go grocery shopping soon."

"Reach a verdict?"

"I'll go Monday after school."

Sam usually hangs around after school until Dean gets off work to drive him home, but the walk to the grocery store and the actual grocery shopping will kill that time nicely. Plus, Sam can't help but be pleased at the plans for a bit of exercise. He can't do too much without Dean starting to make comments and hovering. And Sam's doing a new thing where he doesn't. Worry. Dean. He's very particular about it these days. 

Groggily, Dean makes his way out of bed and into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. "What are we doing today?"

Sam shrugs.

"We can go down the the library and pick out a movie," Dean suggests.

"We don't have a library card."

"Can't we get one?"

"Not without proof of residence."

"Ah." Dean pours himself some coffee. "We can go down to blockbusters? Argue in the aisles for a few hours about what to watch?"

"We don't do that anymore, Dean."

"But we could."

Sam shakes his head. "I don't want to."

"Okay."

They stand in silence in the kitchen while Dean drinks his coffee. 

"I'm gonna..." he says when he's done, pointing toward the bathroom. 

Dean showers and dresses and comes out of the bathroom with his hair all prickly wet and his face flushed. Sam is still leaning against the sink. He realizes, now, it would have been more normal to move, to find something to keep himself occupied, but lately he's been forgetting how to act normal. Dean doesn't acknowledge it. 

Sam turns around and starts washing the dishes in the sink. Behind him he hears Dean digging through his duffle. As Sam turns the tap off to start drying the dishes, he hears the sound of Dean's ring clink against glass.

"You're gonna smoke?"

"Yeah, so?" Dean's got his bowl in his hand.

"Where'd you even get pot from?"

"Guy at work."

"Oh."

Dean makes it to the door before he asks, "You coming?"

Sam dries his hands on the dishtowel and follows Dean outside. 

They smoke right outside the room's door. Right out in the open, facing the parking lot and the street beyond. Dean doesn't offer to shotgun it and Sam would have turned him down even if he did. They retreat inside and Dean lies down in the middle of his bed with his feet still planted on the ground. 

"Ah, I'd missed this," he says.

Sam hovers by the door, unsure where to go or what to do or if he even likes the feeling of being stoned. 

"Haven't smoked since the last time you and I did it."

"Really?"

"Yeah. After that, I thought smoking without you just wouldn't feel as good as smoking with you."

Sam nods, looking down and marveling at his hands.

"Am I still allowed to say things like that?" Dean asks.

"I dunno."

Dean just sort of hums contentedly.

What feels like a long time passes before Sam moves again. And he only moves in the hopes of it distracting him. Because suddenly his mind is filled with repetitive, crazy thoughts like, "Everyone would be better off if you were dead," and "You're not going to be okay, nothing's going to be okay, unless you go over to the fridge and eat everything inside." 

And, sure, Sam usually has thoughts like these, but they're dismissable. For some reason, high, he can't make them shut the hell up. 

He walks toward the fridge but stops outside of it, staring at it. Then he turns and decides to finish drying the dishes. 

While he's got a bowl in his hand, a bowl that he can't remember if he's already dried and he can't quite tell if it's wet just from touching and looking at it, he hears movement behind him. 

"Sam?" Dean asks hesitantly. 

Sam just keeps drying the bowl. Everything will be alright if he can just get this bowl dry.

"Sam?" Dean tries again, putting his hand on Sam's shoulder and turning him around. Dean puts a hand on Sam's cheek and it takes until Dean's skin makes contact with his own for him to realize that he's crying. Not crying. Sobbing. His whole body is jolting with deep, gasping sobs. It's pathetic, he's pathetic, but that thought doesn't make it any easier for him to stop crying. 

Leaving his one hand against Sam's cheek, Dean takes the towel and the bowl out of Sam's hands and puts them on the counter. He guides Sam over to his bed and they both sit down on the edge.

It takes Sam a minute to check into himself enough to realize that he's speaking. "I c-can't, I can't, I-I can't," he's repeating over and over.

Dean hushes him, pulls Sam so he rests against Dean's chest. Sam clutches onto the fabric of Dean's shirt, can hear himself still saying that he can't, but he can also hear Dean. "It's okay, Sam. It's okay. You're okay."

They both skip like broken records, saying the same things, voices overlapping. That is, until Dean wins out. Sam falls silent save the occasional sob, and Dean just keeps repeating himself. "It's okay. You're okay."

Eventually, Sam tires out. He pulls away from Dean and looks at him. He looks scared. "I'm sorry."

Dean lays back on the bed, pats the spot next to him, and Sam joins him. He rests his chin on the crown of Sam's head. They fall asleep.

 

Sam is still high when he wakes up, but damn, he feels good. He can't remember why he got so upset earlier. He can't remember if that actually happened, or if it was some weird dream. But it must have happened, because he woke up curled against Dean. 

As slowly as he can, Sam pulls away from Dean and gets up out of bed. He makes his way over to the kitchenette and pours himself a glass of water. He drinks all of it then turns to see if the noise woke Dean. It didn't. Sam decides to take a calculated risk and make himself something to eat. 

He stares blankly into the fridge. Nothing really looks all that appetizing, but he decides to make some mac and cheese because he knows he used to like it.

While the water is boiling, Sam decides to make a sandwich, which he eats and then goes to check on the water. Still not boiling. He pours himself a bowl of cereal and eats that, too. Then he puts the pasta into the water, which is finally boiling, and decides to fry up some eggs. The eggs finish about the same time that the pasta does, which he drains while shoving forkfuls of egg into his mouth. He thinks maybe he's moving faster than he normally would, but the thought passes without making too much of an impression. He alternates between stirring in cheese and eating it until his lunch looks done and then he eats that, too. Still not satisfied, Sam decides to eat some of Dean's ice cream, even though he knows the temperature of it will slow him down. He's still letting a spoonful melt in his mouth when it hits him what he just did. He drops the bowl like it's burned him and the only thought in his mind is "Out, get it all out," and he can't believe he let this happen.

He hurries into the bathroom and locks the door behind him. He yanks up his sleeve and stands over the toilet.

There's a knock on the bathroom door. "Sam?" Dean calls.

And, of course, because his timing is shit, Sam had just reached his fingers down his throat a second before that, so he retches loudly.

"Are you okay?"

"Great," Sam gasps out.

"The kitchen looks like a warzone, what the hell happened?"

Sam chooses not to respond. He makes himself sick again. It sounds awful, he hates that Dean is hearing it, but he has to. He absolutely has to.

There's a faint clicking sound by the door, and maybe some part of Sam registers what it means and chooses not to care, but another part of him is devastated when, just as he reaches his hand back into his mouth, the lock turns and the door swings open.

It happens too fast for Sam to be able to react. Instead, he just keeps his eyes straight down and continues reaching his fingers back until he gets sick again. It's all over, he may as well get the rest of this shit out of his system while he still has the chance, before Dean does whatever he's going to do in response to this bullshit. 

"What the fuck," Dean yells. He looks like he wants to move, but can't.

"I'll be with you in just a second," Sam says evenly. 

"No. No, no, no, no, no. Right now, Sam. Right this goddamn fucking second you get out of this bathroom."

There are tears in Sam's eyes, from the puking, but he decides to use it to his advantage. He screws up his face as sad as he can manage, and he can get it pretty sad these days, and begs, "Just let me finish, I'll be-"

"No! Absolutely not. I-"

"Dean, I have to. Please. Go back into the room and wait a minute. I'll be right out."

Dean finally moves, he steps fully into the bathroom and reaches a hand out toward Sam without touching him. "No, you need to come with me right now."

"Just a minute, please, just give me another minute."

Dean looks so torn. He draws himself up to full height and Sam is sure the threats are going to start rolling, but instead, Dean says, "One minute," and walks back out into the bedroom, leaving the door wide open.

Sam takes a second to gather himself and then he finishes what he started.


	10. Chapter 9

Sam panics. 

Dean's outside pacing around the room. Sam finishes and cleans up slowly. He's not ready to leave the bathroom. He can't think of anything to say to excuse his behavior, to make this all go away. He wants to climb out of his skin. He wants to hurt. He wants to run away. He wouldn't mind dropping dead on the spot. But it's things like that that got him into this mess and what is he gonna do? What is he gonna do? What is there to do?

A small part of him, a part he's grown familiar with these last few months, a quiet but commanding version of his own voice, says, "Lie."

And that's it. That's the solution. Lie his way out.

He steels himself then steps out of the bathroom. Dean is still pacing. Sam hovers in the doorway. He thinks about asking if they should sit, but that makes what he's about to say sound like something really serious, and that's not the vibe he's trying to give off.

"I'm sorry," he says, finally. His throat hurts, but his voice is steady. It's enough to stop Dean's relentless pacing.

"You're sorry?"

"Yeah."

Dean's eyes rove over Sam, taking stock. Sam can't tell what his brother is thinking, and he can't tell if the right way out of this is to keep Dean talking, let him voice all of his concerns, and then gently shoot them down, or if he should just take the lead. Maybe he should have come up with a lie when he was still in the bathroom, he feels like a deer in headlights, but he know he doesn't look it. His voice, his demeanor, are still as eerily calm as they were when Dean was shouting at him a few minutes ago.

"Why don't you just tell me what's going on? How about we start with that?"

Sam shrugs. "I just, I'm sorry I'm no fun to get high with."

Dean's buying none of it. Sam can see his mind working, he's coming up with plans, exit strategies, he's trying to be Mr. Fix-It. "How long?"

"How long, what?"

"How long have you been," Dean gestures toward the bathroom, and toward Sam, since he's still standing in front of it.

Sam laughs and goes over to his bag to pretend to look for something. "It only happened because I was stoned."

Dean moves into Sam's path before he makes it to the bag. He wraps his big hands around Sam's arms like he's going to literally shake some sense into him. Sam holds eye contact if only to try to prove he's telling the truth. "Don't lie to me, Sam," Dean warns.

Sam allows himself to look a little nervous. "I'm not lying, Dean why are you freaking out?"

"Because this is it, this is what's been wrong this whole time. And I don't know how to fix it, but I know what it is now and we can work on it, Sammy. I mean, I don't know what I'm doing, but we'll figure it out..."

"Dean, calm down. I have no idea what you're talking about."

Dean lets go and starts pacing again. "No, no, don't play games with me, Sam. This is it."

"What are you saying?"

"I knew something was wrong, I knew you were hurting yourself, and now we have to figure out how to stop, to stop this, Sammy. It's gonna be okay."

Sam makes sure to make himself look concerned. "Dean, you've got to calm down and listen to me."

Dean stops pacing. "Okay, talk."

"Alright, I'll be honest, I'm still a little stoned right now, you must still be too, right? I mean, you're being kinda paranoid right now, Dean, but." This isn't entirely true. Anything that was left of his high evaporated the moment Dean walked into that bathroom. But just in case Sam is not being as convincing as he should be, it feels best to say he's still feeling the effects of the drug. "But what you just saw, that was the first time it's ever happened. And I don’t know why it even happened. I just think that, maybe, me and weed just don't mix well."

Dean looks like he's still got a million things to say. Instead, he mutters a bunch of half-sentences to himself and resumes pacing until he eventually wears himself out and goes to sit on his bed. "This is the first time?"

"Yes," Sam emphasizes.

"Then what about the last time we got stoned? You got sick."

"So?"

"You made yourself sick."

"Oh yeah. I, uh, I forgot about that. But it's like I said, it only happens when I'm stoned."

Dean shakes his head. "That's not true."

Sam chooses not to respond, to just listen to what damning evidence he left behind when he always thought he was so careful.

"That, that can't be true."

"It is, Dean. I mean, what, do you think I have, like, an eating disorder or something?" He gives half a laugh. Dean doesn't speak, just looks down at his hands. 

"That's crazy, Dean. And, I mean, don't you think you would have noticed? If I was doing this all the time. I mean, for christ's sake, we live together, spend almost every waking moment together. This is nothing."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, like he's trying to block Sam out for a minute so he can think. "Sam," he says, sounding so tired and so much older than twenty-one. 

"I just want you to be okay."

"And I am okay. I promise. If I wasn't, I'd come talk to you. You're all I've got, Dean." It's killing Sam to lie like this. To be so close to the truth and to be shunting Dean in the opposite direction. And for what? Just so he can keep up this endless cycle of not eating, eating too much, and making himself throw up? It's insane, but there's something inside Sam, not a voice, more a feeling, making him protect whatever this is. Making sure Dean won't stop him, won't get in his way. "I can stop smoking pot if it makes you feel better. I don't really like it anyway, and it's gross that this keeps happening."

Dean sighs, nodding a little to himself. "Yeah, alright. I'm sorry, I- I over-reacted. I just, like I said the other night, I'm scared something's wrong and I'm missing it. I guess I jumped to conclusions a little."

"And that's fine," Sam insists. "You're just trying to look out for me, and I appreciate it. But you have to trust me to tell you if something's wrong, not go looking for something. Clearly your imagination gets away from you."

"I guess." Dean looks so defeated. "I'm gonna go out, if that's okay? I need a drink."

"Have one for me."

Dean nods absently. He gathers his things, ties his boots, and leaves all while looking like he's only half there. Sam hates that he's done this to his brother, but it felt like the only option. It was the only option.

 

Sam never heard the roar of the Impala, so Dean must have walked. While Dean was gone Sam did his homework because he wasn’t sure what else to do, or how long Dean would be gone. He’s still finishing pre-calc when Dean returns, drunk.

“I said have one for me, not twelve.”

Dean flops back onto the bed and closes his eyes. Sam makes his way over and starts undoing Dean’s boots.

“Thanks,” he says, eyes still closed.

“Sure.”

Sam packs up his homework to finish tomorrow and goes over and turns off the lights. He stumbles in the dark on his way back to his bed and lays there on top of the covers like Dean is. They don’t say anything to one another. Sam is just on the edge of sleep, though, when Dean breaks the silence.

“I wish you wouldn’t lie to me.”

Sam speaks without thinking. “I wish I didn’t feel like I had to.”

Sam hears Dean roll over onto his side so he’s facing Sam in the dark. Sam rolls over too. He can see the vague outline of Dean.

“Why do you have to?”

“I dunno.”

“Will you answer now?”

“Answer what?”

“How long?”

“Less than a year, but close enough to.”

Dean makes a sound like he’s been physically hurt.

“When did you notice?” Sam ventures.

“Not until earlier, which was wrong of me and I’m sorry. I should have noticed sooner. There’s been signs, but I missed them. All of them.”

“Signs like what?”

“You don’t eat. Like, ever. And then sometimes all the food we have goes missing. And I thought, good, at least you’re eating, but you didn’t ever, um, keep it, did you?”

Sam shakes his head until he realizes that Dean can’t see him. He chokes out a quick, “No.”

Once Dean gets started, though, it’s hard to stop. “There are cuts on your hands all the time, which would be normal in my line of work, but you’re in school. I’m not exactly sure on that one, but I noticed that a long time ago, and I could never figure out why.”

“My teeth.”

“Hmm?”

“My hand gets cut on my teeth.”

“Oh.” Dean thinks on this a moment before continuing. “Your lips are always split. You can’t stand for very long without getting dizzy. Honestly, you look like crap, Sam. You look so tired all the time and you’ve lost weight and, and I should have noticed when you... I should have noticed.”

“So what do we do?”

Dean sighs and rolls onto his back again. “We deal with it tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

There’s a silence that follows that Sam thinks might have been long enough a window of time for Dean to have fallen asleep. But then, he speaks again. “Hey Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I hold you?”

It’s such a simple request, something so sweet and genuine that Sam’s sure Dean wouldn’t have been able to say it if he were sober. Not that he only wants it because he’s drunk, but that he can only say it. 

And Sam’s torn just about in half. Of course, of course he wants to climb into bed with Dean and feel little and safe again. But some part of him still nags that they don’t do this anymore.

Sam’s touch starvation wins out. He climbs off his bed and navigates his way to Dean’s in the dark. They fold easily into one another. 

It’s still early to be sleeping, but with Dean’s arms tight around him, Sam manages to fall asleep.


	11. Chapter 10

When Sam wakes up before dawn again the next morning, he can tell from Dean’s breathing that he’s not asleep. And he can tell from how little Dean has moved throughout the night that he hasn’t been to sleep at all.

Sam tries to keep his breathing deep and even so it feels like he’s still sleeping. It takes a minute for the day before to catch up to him. He remembers lying, badly, through his teeth. He remembers Dean going out to drink. He remembers being so tired and so done that he did, in the end, admit to what he’s been doing these last months. And now, sleep warm and touching Dean again for the first time in what feels like a long time, he hopes that Dean was too drunk, that Dean doesn’t remember.

Dean begins rubbing his hand up and down Sam’s back. Sam closes his eyes and takes stock. His body hurts, but it always does these days. It feels heavy to carry around with him all the time. He’d like to leave it behind, to exist without it. Dean presses one of his knuckles up and runs it along the knobs of Sam’s spine. Then the movement slows, like Dean is counting the bones.

“Sam?” Dean whispers.

Sam rolls over to face Dean. “Yeah?”

“Nothin’. I just wasn’t sure if you were awake.”

“I am.”

Dean nods and closes his eyes. Sam takes his brother’s hand and brings it to lie on his chest. It stays there for a few minutes before it begins to wander, Dean’s fingers creeping toward Sam’s ribcage, counting those bones too.

“You feel different.”

“No I don’t.”

Dean smiles a little sadly. “You do, Sam. Ordinarily, I’d know you by touch alone, but feeling you now, I wouldn’t recognize you.”

Sam scoffs. “I live in this body, I’d know if it were different.”

“What do you mean you ‘live in’ it?”

“I mean that whatever ‘me’ is, my soul or energy or whatever, it exists inside of this physical thing.” Sam rolls away so he doesn’t have to look at Dean while he talks. “The body’s not mine, it’s just a vessel.”

“So that gives you the right to hurt the vessel?”

“I’m not hurting it, I’m fixing it.”

“That’s ridiculous, Sam, what you’re doing isn’t good for you.”

“I don’t want to fight right now.” His voice sounds tired, even to himself.

“How long have you felt like this?”

“It feels like always, but probably since around when you dropped out of school.”

“That’s a long time,” Dean marvels. He sighs. “And then not long after that you stopped eating?”

“Do we have to talk about this?”

“No, but I want to.”

Angrily, Sam asks, “You want to talk about it?”

“Well, no, not exactly. But I need to understand before I can help you, so yeah, maybe I do want to talk about it, a little, if that’s okay?”

“None of it’s happy.”

“I’m not looking for a bedtime story, Sam. I’m just trying to figure you out.”

“You know me, Dean. You know me better than anyone.”

Dean puts his hand at Sam’s waist. It takes a lot for Sam not to suck in his stomach or flinch away from the touch. “I used to know you. Before all this. Now I feel like I’m talking to a stranger.”

Sam rolls over, off the bed, and onto his feet. The motion makes his head swim. “I can’t talk to you about this.”

“It’s me, Sam. You can talk to me about anything.”

“Not this.”

Dean sighs and sits up in bed. “Okay, then can you talk to someone?”

“Who?”

“I dunno. We don’t have the money for therapy, and we’d have to get Dad involved...”

Sam shudders at the thought. 

“But the school, they must have someone, right?”

“I mean, there’s the guidance counselor, but I’m not sure what they could do, I mean, they’re there to help us get into college.”

“It’s as good a place as any to start?”

Sam weighs his options, which is to say, he considers telling Dean “no” outright, but it would only cause a fight, and really, what does he have to lose?

 

So come Monday morning, Sam sits in the waiting room of the guidance counselor's office. There’s an older lady behind the desk he signed in at who pays him no mind and she shuffles through papers. 

He’s not exactly sure what he’s going to say once his name is called and he’s ushered back into the office, so he just keeps repeating to himself I promised Dean, I promised Dean. 

“Winchester?” The guidance counselor is tall, even without her heels, maybe Dean’s height, with her hair neatly pinned like it’s still the 1940’s. She’s dressed nice, she smells nice, and he is so damn grateful that she’s a woman. At the last school it had been a man who did the “Welcome to our high school” speech and promised “I’m here if you need anything,” while looking at the next person’s file in the queue. 

She leads him down the hall. Her office is small, more a closet than an office. There’s a bulletin board by the door with different college logos, pictures of her two kids with wild curly hair. In the most recent picture, the oldest is wearing a cap and gown, the youngest looks about Sam’s age. 

She gestures toward the only other chair in the room besides the desk chair, which she spins around so she can sit across the small round table from Sam. 

“So, Mr. Winchester, what can I do for you today? Having trouble settling in? I know a new school can be challenging.” She smiles. Her teeth are dazzlingly white against her dark skin. He’s sure the smile is meant to be reassuring, but it feels more like a predator leering at prey. 

“No, I, uh. I’m pretty used to being the new kid. We move a lot, for my dad’s job.”

“I’ve seen that from your transcripts. What does your dad do?”

“He’s in sales.”

“Ah. Well, I’ve also seen that you are an excellent student, one of the best I’ve seen. If you’re around long enough, we’ll have to think about making you valedictorian, you keep this up. So, why don’t you tell me what has brought you in here today?”

Sam looks down at his hands. It’s uncomfortable sitting in this chair with his backpack still on, but he hadn’t thought to take it off and he thinks now it’s too late. “My, uh, brother wanted me to come in. He’s... worried.”

“About?”

“You’re not going to tell anyone I was in here, are you? Like, tell my dad or make a note in my file for all my teachers to see?”

“Well, Sam, that sort of depends on what the problem is. You see, there are rules.”

Sam squirms a little in his seat. “What sort of rules?”

“Well, if I think that you might be a danger to yourself or someone else, I’d have to report it, for example.”

“What do you mean by ‘danger’?”

“Why don’t we start with what’s going on?”

“I can’t. Not if you’re gonna... do something.”

“Why did you come in here if you didn’t want me to ‘do something’?”

Sam stands. “You’re right, I’m sorry for wasting your time.” He turns to leave.

It’s not far to the door, but she manages to catch him before he reaches it. “Sam, just wait a second.”

He stands still and waits.

“Your brother. He’s older, I assume? What’s he like?”

“Dean’s everything.” Sam sighs and turns around. “They say he’s a lot like my mom. I don’t know anything about that, I don’t remember her, but I know that he’s had to step in and be both my mom and my dad since he was a little kid. He’s twenty-one now, works as a mechanic. He had to drop out of school in the twelfth grade so he could work and take care of me, but he’s so smart and just, good. 

“And he’s worried about me and I don’t want to worry him, I don’t want to keep being a problem for him, and he asked me to come here even though I don’t really want to, but I’d do anything he asked. So, I came. But I’m not even sure you can help me.”

“Why don’t you give me a chance to try, huh?” She smiles again and points at the chair Sam vacated.

Begrudgingly, he sits back down, this time taking his backpack off first.

“Now, you have to give me a hint as to what’s happening so I can tell you if it’s something that needs to go in your file or warrant a phone call home or something of that nature.”

“I had a friend, at my last school, who had an eating disorder,” he lies, thinking of Abbie and her perfect, slim little body, thinking of how this should have happened to someone like her, not someone like him. Her parting words echo through him. Just because you’re a boy. She knew. And she didn’t want him being a boy to get in the way of him getting help. He shakes the thought away and continues. “And when she told somebody, they called her parents and she ended up in the hospital and everything. What would this school do with something like that?”

“Similar policy, I’d have to call home.”

Sam tries to think what emergency contact number he wrote down when he was filling out paperwork for this school. Was it Dean’s? Was it Dad’s?

“Sam? You need to talk to me if I have any chance of helping you.”

He sighs, decides to run the risk of them calling his father. “Yeah, well. My brother thinks that I maybe have... an... eating disorder?”

“What makes him think that?”

“Well, he kinda walked in on me.”

“Meaning?”

“I’d rather not.”

“Alright, well, the important question here is do you think that?”

Sam can’t help but notice she dodged using the actual words. Is a high school guidance counselor even qualified to handle shit like this? Or do they just help you with college paperwork and send you on your way? 

“I dunno. Maybe. But even if I did, I’m not sure I want to stop? So I don’t even know what I was expecting to get out of this.”

“I can recommend you to a therapist,” she offers.

He shakes his head. “We can’t afford it.”

“If you get a doctor’s note, I can have it set up that you eat lunch in the nurse’s office.”

“How would that help?”

“It’s helped other students before. You may be my first boy, but-”

Exactly what Sam had been afraid of. “Forget it,” he snaps, grabbing his bag and this time moving quickly toward the door. “Thanks for your help.”

He throws himself out into the hallway before she can call after him. It takes a lot of willpower to keep from bursting into angry, frustrated tears. It was stupid, but some part of him had his hopes up that someone might actually be able to help him. Another part of him, though, realizes he got angry far too quickly in order to stop anyone from helping him. What he said in there was true, he’s not sure he wants to stop. He wants Dean not to worry. He wants Dean to not know. He wants to go back to before the other night and stop all this from happening.

He takes out his cell phone and calls Dean even though he knows he’s at work.

It rings so long it goes to voicemail, but Sam tries again.

“Hello?”

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sam. Gimme a minute, let me step outside... Okay, what’s up?”

“I did what you asked, but she was entirely useless. There’s nothing she can do except call you, oh by the way, she’s gonna call you. But other than that, nothing. We’re on our own.”

“We usually are, Sammy. Alright, deep breaths, go to class, I get off at three, I’ll come pick you up, okay?”

“I have to go grocery shopping.”

“We’ll go later. Don’t worry. I’ll be there a little after three. Okay? Hang in there.”

“Okay.”

Sam flips his phone shut and tries to orient himself. He has no idea what class he’s supposed to be in, or how he’s supposed to focus on learning right now. He decides to go to the library, sneak in when the librarian isn’t at her desk, and see how good a supply of medical books this new school has.


	12. Chapter 11

When Dean pulls into the parking lot with the Impala, Sam’s head is buzzing with new words and terms he learned from ditching class and holing up in the library.

Dean doesn’t say anything while Sam gets in, but he turns down the radio in case Sam wants to talk. He doesn’t, though, so they ride in comfortable silence.

It takes a while for Sam to notice that they’re not headed back to the motel. Sam watches the signs around town to make sure they’re not on their way to a hospital or something, but no little blue signs come up.

“Where are we going?” He asks, his voice betraying him by clearly vocalizing his anxiety.

“Not anywhere in particular,” Dean says. “I thought we could drive.”

Sam took a creative writing class his freshman year, many towns away from here, and something the teacher said rings in his ears. If ever you need two characters to have a conversation, put them in a car. That way they’re forced together and short of throwing themselves out of the car, they’re stuck, and therefore have to talk. Sam wonders if this is the approach Dean is going with, but he hasn’t said much.

They make their way onto the highway. Sam thinks it’s Rt. 80, but he’s not sure. Dean drives slightly above the speed limit in the middle lane because they’re not in a rush to get anywhere.

The sky looks like there might be a storm in another hour or so. Sam’s always liked this weather, the ominous, pink-tinged clouds and the beginnings of electricity humming in the air. He rests his head back against the seat and just watches everything fly by through the window.

Rain starts the further west they get. The storm rages on, loud and exciting, just beyond Sam’s reach. There’s music still playing through the speakers, but it’s drown out by the splattering rain and crashes of thunder.

Sam raises his voice and says, “So my day could have gone better.”

Dean smiles and looks quickly over at Sam then back at the road. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He turns so he’s facing Dean instead of the window. Dean has one hand on the top of the steering wheel and the other in his lap. Sam thinks about reaching for it. “The guidance counselor was nice, just not very helpful.”

“Sounds about right.”

“You talked to her?”

“She called right after you did.”

“Oh.”

Dean reaches his free hand back to rest it on the seat, his fingers falling just behind Sam’s neck. He doesn’t elaborate any further.

“So what are we gonna do?”

“You’ve asked that a lot.”

“Sorry.”

Dean shifts his arm forward slightly so his fingers can reach to play with the ends of Sam’s hair. Sam leans into the touch until Dean’s nails are scratching at the back of his head.

“What do you want to do,” Dean asks.

It’s not a question Sam had ever anticipated Dean asking. He’s thought a lot about what he wants to do, his mind in a constant loop, oscillating between not wanting to do anything different from what he’s been doing and wanting to stop.

Dean lets the question hang there. He gets over a lane and takes an exit to turn around and head back to town. Sam’s not aware of any of the drive back. He’s aware only of his options and of Dean. How Dean’s fingers feel in his hair, how peaceful he looks when he’s driving, how big his hands are. They’re almost back to the motel when Sam finally speaks again.

“I want to do nothing, and...” he trails off.

“And?” Dean urges patiently.

“And I want to not have to do this for the rest of my life.”

“You’re probably going to switch between those two a lot for the next few...”

Dean not completing that sentence spooks Sam a little. He swallows hard and asks, “Months?”

“Maybe years, Sammy. But you’re looking at that as opposed to the rest of your life feeling like this.”

Sam doesn’t reply. They pull into the parking lot and Dean parks right in front of their door. He cuts the engine.

“You coming?”

Sam nods and follows in a daze. Years? Years? He feels nauseous and so, so hungry all at once.

 

Dean takes a shower and starts making dinner. Sam pulls out his homework and works on his bed. He’s feeling like he wants to pull his hair out doing pre-calc. His last school was two units behind his current school, so he’s been self-teaching to catch up. Physics homework lies just out of reach, shoved over there in frustration as his calculations missed spectacularly from the answers in the back of the book. He’s starting to rethink having taken all honors classes, but he also worries he won’t be good enough for colleges if his A’s aren’t in the most difficult classes available. 

He lets himself daydream about college for a little. He’ll enjoy the freedom, the never having to think about lore or hunting. It sounds safe and normal and he wants it more than anything. On the downside: no Dean. On the upside: he can eat or not eat or do whatever the hell he wants in college. There’ll be no one around to stop him. It’s comforting. 

He stretches out like a lazy cat and flops back onto his pillows. 

“Dinner’s just about ready,” Dean says. 

Sam rolls over so he’s face first in the pillows and murmurs, “Not hungry.”

“Come on, Sam, you need to eat,” Dean presses.

Sam lifts his head up enough to be able to speak more clearly. “I’m not hungry.” Then he burrows back down into the pillows.

He doesn’t hear Dean cross the room until Dean is literally lying on top of him. He growls in this voice he used to use to tell Sam stories when he was a little kid. “Sam, listen to me, Sam, this is your brother speaking. Can you hear me?”

A little irritated, but mostly amused, Sam growls back, “Dean? Dean, is that you?”

“Yes, Sam! Sam, it’s me, Dean. Listen, Sam. I have food. Real, live food.” Dean laughs. “Well, not live,” he says in his normal voice before switching back to the growl. “I have sacrificed a cow on an alter, drained its blood, and ground its meat for sustenance in the form of tacos, please, Sam. Don’t let all my hard work go to waste. Sam, I have slaved over this meal. Dine with me, Sam. Again, this is your brother speaking.”

They haven’t done this in forever, years at least. It always used to make Sam laugh, it used to make Sam cave into whatever Dean wanted. But Sam is older now. He lets his laughter die out and squirms around until Dean rolls off of him. They hold eye contact for a minute before Sam can’t bear to see the hope in Dean’s eyes anymore.

“I can’t, Dean. I’m sorry.”

Dean nods. “Okay, well, I made you a plate. At least come sit with me at the table.”

Dean get up out of the bed and holds his hand out to help Sam up. Sam takes it and they make their way over to the table shoved up in the corner of the kitchenette. 

 

And dinners go like this for about a week. Every night Dean is soft and gentle and pleading. They sit with food in front of Sam and their fingers intertwined, Dean eating with his left hand so that Sam could possibly choose to pick up that fork. He doesn’t, not for the first week. 

Then the second week Dean stops offering up his hand for comfort. They sit in silence and Sam’s head swims and he’s desperate to get Dean back on his side, it has been so nice feeling close to Dean again. 

They’ve been sharing a bed again and Dean is always touching Sam. Sam ignores the fact that the touches are usually Dean steadying him when he stands up too fast, or marveling in sick fascination at the feel of his bones. 

So Sam starts eating. Or, he makes it look like he’s eating. The food moves around the plate, the fork makes it to his mouth. He talks a lot at dinner time, saves stories from school until then so his mouth is always busy. He’s rewarded with Dean’s smile and they go to bed together every night.

By the start of the third week, everything inside of Sam feels empty and achy. He’s exhausted and miserable, but he convinces himself that he loves it. He doesn’t have the energy to talk anymore. He sleeps most of the time when he’s home. His tests are coming back with failing grades and notes to talk to the teachers, but he never does. 

Dean wakes him for dinner like every night, but it’s just a quick shove of his shoulder and a mutter of, “Dinner.” 

There’s nothing to distract Sam of the feeling of his too heavy body. There are no thoughts in his head, just a feeling like watching dust move in the haze of sunlight. His hand weighs too much to move to pick up his fork. He’s tired of his own charades. 

“Not even gonna fake it tonight?” Dean mutters, pushing food around his own plate, never letting it reach his mouth. 

Ordinarily, Sam knows he would jump to his feet and start shouting, but he’s tired. “No.” 

Dean nods, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I’m not just gonna sit here and watch you die, Sam.”

“Okay.”

“I’m calling Dad.”

“Okay.”

Dean hesitates, like he was only bluffing about calling John, hoping Sam would fight him on it. When Sam doesn’t even raise his gaze to meet Dean’s, Dean gives up and pulls his phone out of his pocket.

The line rings all the way to voicemail. “Dad, it’s me. Sam’s sick, call me back.”

 

They're in bed, together, but only technically, with a foot of space between them when Dean's phone starts ringing. Dean gets up and digs through his pile of clothes on the floor to pull it out and flip it open. He puts it to his ear instead of putting it on speaker, so Sam can only hear Dean's side. 

"Dad?"

A short pause.

"I know, but I wouldn't call if it wasn't important."

Dean sits down on the edge of the bed as he listens. 

"It's like I said, Sam's sick. And I need you here. I can explain when you get here, just please come back."

A longer pause. Dean sits up straighter.

"I know, sir."

John's muffled voice is rising.

"Yes, I know. But this is more important."

Dean stands up and starts pacing.

"And he's your son! Come home and help me or we'll find someone else who will."

Sam burrows down under the covers. Dean does not talk to their father like that. Dean obeys. Dean follows orders.

"Thank you," Dean bites out just before he snaps his phone shut. "Dad'll be here soon," Dean says unnecessarily.

"Okay," Sam says. He's starting to feel like that's the only word he knows how to say anymore. But from somewhere, some still living piece of him that remembers how to be human, and, more importantly, remembers how to be Dean's little brother, Sam finds more words. Important ones. "Come back to bed."

Dean looks down at the floor and picks at the comforter on the bed. "Sam, I- I really think we should be in different beds when he gets here."

"Are you going to sleep without me?"

"No, I thought we could wait up together."

Sam nods and gets up out of bed. He takes the blankets with him because he's cold. He's always so cold. They sit at the little kitchen table and wait. They don't speak, but Sam watches as their breathing matches up and how Dean reaches across the table to wordlessly ask for Sam's hand and it's enough to get them through the coming hours.


	13. Chapter 12

It's still dark out when John comes tearing into the parking lot. Sam watches as Dean closes his eyes and counts out three deep breaths. Then he turns and sees Sam staring.

"You can pretend to be asleep, if you want," Dean whispers hurriedly as a car door slams. "I can't promise he won't wake you up, but..."

Sam shakes his head and tightens his grip on his brother's hand. The knock on the door is abrupt and rough. Dean doesn't even look through the peephole to verify that it's their father. He would be able to identify John's boot-clad footfalls in any setting.

John's got his fist balled in Dean's shirt the second the door swings open. He backs Dean into the room and snarls, "I swear to god, boy, if you dragged me away from a case over nothing, so help me, I will separate the two of you."

Dean panickedly spares a glance at Sam. Sam is frozen in place. The reality of the situation is just now setting in. When Dean said he was gonna call John, Sam should have eaten. He should have taken the threat seriously. He should have had the ability to think for himself for five goddamn seconds.

He's overwhelmed with the same fearful questioning of what to do. How does he get out of this? How does he get to stay with Dean? How is he supposed to tell his father he thinks he might have an eating disorder? What would John even do with that?

"Sam, cut it out," John demands.

Dean is trying to free himself from John's grasp to get to Sam. He looks scared.

Sam checks into himself again. His breathing is coming in short, quick bursts. "Can't," he gasps.

Dean manages to pull himself free, or maybe John loosens his hold. Either way, Dean is knelt in front of Sam in a heartbeat, taking slow, even breaths and begging Sam to follow along. As his voice becomes more encouraging, Sam notices that his own breathing has slowed.

"That's very good, Sammy. Good, one more," Dean coos.

Dean turns and throws his gaze like daggers at John, as if this is his fault. Sam shrinks under his father's glare when it darts from Dean to him.

"What the hell was that?" He asks, a hint of concern in his gruff voice.

Dean sighs and stands between Sam and John. "How many times do I have to tell you? Sam's sick."

John moves over to the kitchen counter and toes out of his boots. "What kinda sick? He looks alright to me. Little thin, but..."

Sam flinches at the observation. He doesn't like that they're talking like he's not in the room, but he also doesn't think he could contribute any. Dean reaches back behind himself and offers his hand, but Sam doesn't take it.

"We don't really know. That's why I called you."

"Do you think it's something supernatural?"

Dean allows the thought, though he doesn't believe it. "Maybe. Probably not. But maybe."

"Possession?"

"I've run all the tests I know of. Like I said, it's probably something normal."

Sam laughs a little to think anything about this is normal.

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"Stay." Dean straightens his posture as he speaks, like it helps him gain the conficdence to ask for what he needs. "Help."

"I can't. Dean, there are people out there who need me."

"We need you," Dean shouts. Sam recoils at the raised voices.

"You don't."

"I'm not his father," Dean snaps. "I'm not his mother. I don't know what I'm doing."

"No parent knows what they're doing," John says casually.

"I'm in over my head. I am begging you to stay home and help us, please, Dad."

"What exactly do you expect me to do? I can't make him eat any more than you can." As soon as John says that, Sam knows this is not the first time his brother and father have talked about this. Because, so far, this whole conversation, no one has mentioned that Sam isn't eating. Which means John already knew. And he didn't care. "If he wants to waste away to nothing, let him. When he gets hungry enough, he'll eat again."

"See, that's the thing, Dad. I don't think he will. I waited too long, and I'm sorry. But I'm not his fucking parent. Where were you? Why didn't you stop him?"

John doesn't reply. Instead, he turns and starts rummaging around the kitchen. Sam knows what's happening, and as his father prepares a meal, Sam prepares for a way out.

John sets a bowl of pasta drenched in butter in front of Sam, who's still sitting at the kitchen table. John crosses back to his spot along the counter, crosses his arms across his chest, and says, "Eat."

Sam looks to Dean, but Dean won't hold eye contact. Sam's on his own.

So, he shuts off his brain as best he can and eats the entire bowl as quickly as he can manage. He doesn't look up the whole time. When he's finished, he pushes the bowl away from him and jumps to his feet.

"I'm just... gonna go out for a smoke," Sam says, looking anxious.

"You smoke?" John asks.

Sam shrugs, pulls on his shoes, and hurries out the door.

"See," John says, pointing in Sam's wake. "He's fine. You're overreacting, Dean."

Dean storms to the other side of the room and grabs a stack of papers from the top of his bag. He throws the papers at John who catches them easily just at chest level.

"What's this?"

"Papers to move us to Bobby's. I told you, if you won't help us, I'll find someone who will. Transfer him back to high school there." Then Dean tears out of the motel room after Sam.

 

Sam didn't make it far, just to the furthest edge of the parking lot, to a patch of grass just beyond the pavement. His breath sounds like it's being ripped from his body and he's bent double with his hand on his chest. Dean walks over and puts his hand on Sam's shaking shoulder.

"Sammy, please don't..." Dean starts.

Sam straightens up and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. His lip is bleeding and he's still gulping down air. Sam says, "I'm sorry," then turns his head and spits.

Dean nods and takes a bandana out of his pocket to give to Sam. Sam wipes his hand and his mouth on it then wrings the fabric nervously. "I'm sorry," he says again.

Dean sighs. "You didn't have to."

Sam laughs. "Which part? It all felt pretty required."

Dean's not even sure what he had meant by it. Sam didn't have to eat? Didn't have to try to prove to John that he was fine? Didn't have to make himself sick in a parking lot away from their father? Didn't have to act like a dying dog, running away from his owners in his final moments?

He pulls out two cigarettes from his pack and lights them both with a match before handing one to Sam.

"Thanks," Sam mutters.

They smoke in silence, Sam stubbing out his cigarette before Dean. Then they're just standing outside together. It's cold out, still decidedly winter despite spring being on its way. Neither of them are wearing jackets. Sam, perpetually freezing Sam, has been shivering since Dean caught up with him out here. And maybe that's why Dean takes a step forward.

"Sam?" Dean asks, cautiously.

Sam wavers on his feet for a minute before allowing himself to fall forward a little and crash straight into Dean's chest. His fingers grasp at the material of Dean's shirt. Dean wraps his arms around his brother, trying to give him warmth and comfort at once. Sam feels so small in his arms. Like he's made of wet tissue paper. Dean rests his cheek on the top of Sam's head. He tries to think of something soothing to say, but "It'll be alright" and "You're okay" feel like lies.

Dean settles on, "I've got you, baby. I'm not going anywhere."


	14. Chapter 13

The drive to Sioux Falls takes Sam and Dean two days. Eleven hours the first, a night in a motel where Dean brings home dinner for two but doesn't say anything about it, and ten or so hours the second day. The ride is painfully boring. There is absolutely nothing to look at in Ohio or Indiana except fields of corn. The religious billboards get on Sam's nerves more than they should. He thinks they're not what he's so frustrated with, but they're a good outlet for it all. 

Dean calls Bobby on the way. It goes basically the same way the call with John went. "Sam's sick. We need help." Except, instead of fighting them, Bobby reprimands Dean for not asking for help sooner. 

When they left John, he was poring over maps and books and printouts from a library. He looked up when the door clicked open as his boys were just about to leave. His parting words were simple. "Straighten yourself out, boy." Then he looked back down at his notes. Though the words themselves were not all that encouraging, the look of pain in John's eyes when he said them, well, it was enough for Sam. 

South Dakota isn't much better to look at than the rest of the midwest, but the closer they got to the garage, the more things started to look familiar. Road names set off some recognition in the back of Sam's head. Certain houses toyed at the edge of his memory. A billiards hall actually had a memory attached. Dean had brought him here every Thursday night, a few years ago, and taught Sam how to hustle pool. 

They get to Bobby's late at night, after last call. Bobby is out drinking something neat on the porch when the Impala pulls up to the front of the house. Sam watches as he finishes his drink, sets the glass aside, and stands. 

When Sam and Dean were kids, Sam used to throw himself out of the car when they pulled up to Bobby's and run and hug him. Sam's not all that much older now than he was the last time he did it, but it feels like a lifetime has passed. He's different now. He's not a kid.

So he gets out of the car in time with Dean and walks over to the bottom of the stairs leading onto Bobby's porch. Bobby holds his hand out and Dean pulls him into a one armed hug. Sam waits at Dean's elbow, hiding slightly behind his brother, as if he's afraid of Bobby. And he is, a little. He's afraid of what this change of living space is going to mean for all of them. It isn't just Dean and Sam against the world anymore. 

"Good to see you, boy," Bobby says before gesturing back toward the open front door. 

Sam marvels at the piles of books coated in dust, the maps and drawings and pages of text pinned to the wallpapered walls. The house feels darker than outside does, the lights are dim and the streetlights out in the garage provide only streaks of light through the dirty windows. 

Bobby is talking, so Sam decides he should be listening.

"And you each get your own room, since John's not gonna be here. So, Dean, you can take your Daddy's room at the end of the hall, Sam, you get yours and Dean's old room. Sound good?"

Dean nods. "Thanks, Bobby."

"Eh." Bobby looks over his shoulder toward the kitchen, then back. "You boys eat already? I wasn't sure if I should wait or not."

Sam shrinks back a little more. Dean had actually snapped at him when he refused to get dinner on the road. Then, maybe out of anger, maybe out of desire to get to Bobby's faster, Dean had decided they just wouldn't stop for food until they got there. 

"We could eat," Dean says in a falsely causal tone. 

He drops his bag at the end of the couch in the living room. Sam follows suit. 

Bobby bustles around the kitchen, clanking dishes and pots and pans. The myriad sounds overstimulate Sam, they all echo in his head, so he goes out to sit in the living room. 

He's not doing or thinking anything in particular when Dean comes out with a plate. Dean sets it down on the coffee table and sits down with a sigh. "What are we gonna do?"

Sam clasps his hands together and looks at them. "About?"

"Just, one step at a time here. You gonna eat this?"

Sam flinches back at the harshness of Dean's question. "I can't."

"Okay. Don't take this the wrong way, Sammy, but I need a break. I'm gonna go have a beer and finish off this pack and go to bed. I'm asking you to try, tonight, okay? Not just with the food. Talk to Bobby. Set up your room like we're not a bunch of fucking nomads. Something. Okay?"

Sam nods. Dean reaches over and pats Sam's knee before getting up with a grunt like he's much older than he really is and heading out the back door. Sam wonders if he was really sitting here long enough that Dean had already eaten dinner with Bobby before he came into the room, or if Dean was skipping yet another meal himself. The thought made Sam anxious and sympathetic to Dean's recent struggles with getting Sam to eat. 

Bobby comes into the room a few minutes after Dean leaves. He's holding a beer by the neck and he's grown in a full beard since the last time Sam lived here. He looks better like that, softer, while strangers would say gruffer. 

He's leaned up against the door frame just watching Sam. Sam watches right back. 

"What kinda trouble are you in?" Bobby asks.

Sam shrugs, then feels guilty, remembering Dean asking him to try. "A lot," he settles on.

Bobby nods. "You Winchesters tend to only find trouble in that quantity." He laughs a little to himself. "Mind if I sit?"

Sam just looks at the space Dean vacated in answer.

"Dean didn't say a whole lot," Bobby continues. "Just that you were sick."

Sam pulls at the sleeve of his sweatshirt, eyes on his hands. "Dean thinks I am, yeah."

"And you don't?"

Sam shrugs. "I mean, I guess I am. Maybe."

Bobby just makes a sound like, "Hm." Maybe he's waiting for Sam to elaborate, but Sam can't find his voice. So Bobby goes on. "Are you hurting yourself?"

Sam laughs bitterly. "Everyone's go to. Yes, but not like that."

"Shame," Bobby says, then, realizing how that sounded. "I mean, it's good you're not, you know, cutting yourself or whatever. I just mean, been through that once, could do it again. Better, this time."

He's not sure what Bobby means, "been though that once," but there's a part of him that's afraid to ask, so he stays quiet. 

"So what are you doing, then, Sam?"

Sam sighs, closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then slouches back on the couch. "Mostly not eating," he says slowly. "And then sometimes eating too much and then."

Bobby drinks more of his beer. "So we're dealing with an eating disorder," he says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. 

"I guess."

"Alright, Sam. If at all possible, don't worry about this tonight. Go get some sleep. In the morning, we'll have a game plan. Sound good?"

Sam nods, even though it doesn't sound good. It sounds terrifying. He gets up and heads toward his room.

Though, on the way, Sam gets stuck on something Bobby said. "Been through that once, could do it again. Better, this time." And although Sam had dismissed it at the time, the words are spinning in his head almost faster than he can keep up with and he has to know. 

He stands, lost, in the middle of the hallway, hoping beyond hope that he's wrong about what he's thinking. Dean couldn't have. Sam would have known. It can't be.

Without thinking, Sam knocks on Dean's door. He's not used to Dean having a door. Not used to not getting to share a bed, let alone not share a room with his brother. 

"Yeah?"

As Sam opens the door, he hears the rustle of sheets moving. Dean is leaned up with his back against the wall. He just pulled his knees up to his chest. 

Sam's hand comes up to his mouth. He's completely forgotten why he walked in here.

Dean was jerking off. It's obvious from his posture, from the blush in his cheeks, the unevenness of his breath. 

"I can come back," Sam says, awkwardly. He regrets saying it the second the words leave his mouth. It feels accusatory. Like Dean was doing something wrong. And, honestly, the last thing Sam wants to do is leave. 

A little exasperated, Dean asks, "What did you need, Sam?"

Sam just stands there, glued to the spot. "I, uh."

Dean fidgets a little. "What, Sam?"

"I wanted to ask you something, but, uh." Now seems like the wrong time to pose his question.

Feeling a little brave, Sam goes over and sits on the bed. Right at Dean's feet. When Dean doesn't withdraw, Sam dares to say, "It's been a long time, huh?" Dean doesn't flinch, so Sam continues. "I'm sorry. I know I've been... distracting. It's been a long time for me, too."

Dean nods, holding eye contact with Sam. His lip falls between his teeth and there's a question in his eyes. 

"You can keep going," Sam says like a suggestion, like a timid little question from Dean's sweet little brother.

Sam moves over so Dean can stretch out again, if he wants. Sam knows he looks hungry, he can feel it, but it's a different kind of hunger than the kind that usually plagues him. 

Dean flicks his eyebrows up at Sam. Sam mimics the gesture, then looks expectantly towards Dean's lap. Dean almost shrugs, his body relaxing as he kicks his legs back out and goes back to getting himself off. 

At first, Dean plays at modesty. The sheet covers the movement of Dean's fist around his dick. But because of the steady rhythm, the twisting movement at the head, the sheet falls away.

Dean's dick is shiny with lube and so much bigger than Sam's. Sam knows that it would fill him completely, if ever Sam worked up the courage to ask. 

Sam watches, mesmerized. His heart is in his throat and his mind is providing images of every dirty thing he's never allowed himself to fully imagine. 

Dean roughly maneuvering Sam's tiny body in the back seat of the Impala, Sam's face pressed against the leather seat, his ass in the air as Dean plows into him. Then Sam on his back in bed with his legs spread like a girl, squirming and begging for Dean's dick while Dean fucks him loose with his fingers. Sam naked and not scared and dying to just be taken. Sam riding Dean's cock, breathless in lingerie with the panties just shoved off to the side. Dean's hands possessively gripping Sam's ass. It's so much, it's too much.

And all just because Dean's got his fat dick in his hand. Dean picks up the pace. His eyes are on Sam the whole time. 

Sam can't get hard anymore. He hasn't been able to consistently in months. He noticed the first time back when Abbie kissed him. When he knows he should have gotten hard, with her in a towel, then her touching him, kissing him. Sam can't get hard anymore, but he feels so, so close to getting there again. He hasn't came in months. Even his memory of what orgasms feel like is faded and worn. 

But watching Dean. Well. Dean comes with his head tilted back and his mouth open and his eyes closed. A small sound of pleasure escapes him. Sam is overwhelmed by the sight, by the sudden memory of what Dean must be feeling. The only thing that could have made it better would be if Sam could have touched Dean without scaring him off. 

Dean says, softly, almost too quiet to hear, "Sam," and never before has Sam thought his name could be said so beautifully, with such reverence. 

When Sam takes a second to check into himself, he realizes that he's hard. It is the most beautiful feeling.


	15. Chapter 14

The muscles in Dean's legs jump a little as his orgasm wears away. His breathing is ragged, his eyes are still closed. Sam cannot believe that he just watched Dean jerk off, but he also can't believe that this is the first time it's ever happened. He wants to watch Dean every time. He wants to help. He wants to get himself off, now, but in a distant sort of way, like maybe he'll take a long shower later. 

Sam likes watching Dean's bare chest rise and fall. Eventually, his breathing evens out and Sam can tell Dean is shocked by what he just allowed to happen. Sam attempts some damage control. 

He wants to say, "You have a really pretty dick," or, "God, you're hot when you come," but he doesn't want to freak Dean out, and his awkward teenage compliments don't feel like quite enough. Instead, he says, "Feel better?"

"Yeah. Do you, um, my jeans are under you, can I have them?"

Sam picks up his little ass off the bed and tugs the jeans out from under him and hands them over. Dean pulls them on without underwear.

"You, uh, you wanted to talk to me about something?" Dean says. 

"Oh." It still feels like the wrong moment to ask about it, but at the same time, he's not sure he'll be brave enough any other time than when he's high off the excitement of feeling so close to Dean. "Bobby said... something. And I was wondering if he was alluding to you."

Dean gives Sam a moment to elaborate, but when he doesn't, he says, "Can't say one way or another unless you tell me, Sammy."

"Right. Yeah, it's just. It's not the most comfortable topic in the world."

Dean kinda laughs. "We haven't done much 'comfortable' these days. Just tell me."

"Well, like you, he asked if I was hurting myself."

"Which you are," Dean says exaggeratedly knowingly.

Sam bristles. "I know that."

Dean looks down and rubs the back of his neck. "I know. I'm sorry. I didn't, I wasn't thinking."

Sam shakes his head. "No, it's fine. Sorry. I just. Dean?"

"I'm right here."

Sam takes a deep breath in. "You're always here?"

"Always."

"Bobby said something about, well. Dean? I'm not, I'm not judging you, or anything. Certainly I'd have no leg to stand on. I just want to know."

"Relax, Sam. It's just me. Just ask."

"Did you used to hurt yourself, too?"

Sam anticipates the long silence that follows, so it doesn't make him feel too uncomfortable.

"It was a long time ago," Dean admits.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You were just a kid, Sam. I couldn't. You wouldn't have understood, I didn't want to scare you, Dad told me not to, I didn't want you to think it was an okay thing to do."

"How? You know. What did you do?" Sam asks, some part of him humming with what can only be described as excitement. But in the same way older adults tell kids not to get excited when they start shouting or crying or acting anything other than perfectly pleasant.

"I used to cut myself."

"Can I see?"

Dean smirks. "Morbid little fuck." Dean seems to think for a moment, before deciding on, "Yeah."

Dean squirms on the bed as he pulls back out of his jeans. He doesn't take them all the way off, just down past his knees. His palm rests on his right thigh. Sam knows he's covering the old scars. 

"It was a long time ago," Dean says again. 

"Okay."

Dean lifts his hand. It takes a moment for Sam's eyes to adjust, to see the tangles of white lines going in every possible direction. There are small spaces of untouched skin between the marks. Like laying under a tree and only seeing pockets of the sky through the branches. The marks are clearly old, white and shiny with age. They catch the light differently than the rest of Dean's skin. Some of the marks are raised. Sam wants to press his lips to each and every mark, even if it takes him all night. 

Instead, he reaches out and runs a single finger up the length of Dean's thigh, from just above the knee where the marks start, to Dean's hipbone where they end. 

Dean's leg hair helps hide them. They're not something anyone would notice unless they were looking. His girlfriends, their father, Sam. No one would notice unless they were looking. And who the hell was looking when all this is going on?

"Who knows?"

"Bobby and this girl, Natalie."

"How did they find out?"

Dean moves to pull up his jeans, but Sam wordlessly stops him by pressing his palm to the middle of Dean's thigh. "Um. Bobby was never supposed to know. I'm grateful, now, but I didn't mean for him to find out, at the time. I cut a little deeper than I meant to, it was only ever supposed to be superficial little marks, and it bled through my jeans. And so I had this bloodstain on my thigh and when he asked about it my lie fell flat. He took me into the bathroom and yanked down my jeans and started tending to the cuts. Didn't say anything. Next morning at breakfast there was a package of rubberbands and a stress ball in front of my spot at the table."

"Did you and him ever talk about it?"

"Not at first. But he kept trying to wordlessly give me alternatives and I kept cutting anyway, so eventually he sat me down and we had a long talk. And then a dozen smaller ones after that. Eventually, I started going and hovering at his elbow whenever I wanted to do it and he knew and he'd keep me with him, whatever he was doing, until I promised I was okay."

"And the girl?"

Dean shrugs. "We were dating. We were fucking. She saw, but she never said a word about it. Sometimes she'd press her hand over the spot where the marks are, like you're doing right now, but that was it." 

"How long did it take you to stop?"

"It's an ongoing thing. I still want to, sometimes. So I would say it's more in the stopping phase than the stopped." 

Sam nods. Then he pulls away his hand and lets Dean get redressed. The second Dean stops moving, Sam is throwing himself forward, so he can lie with his head on Dean's chest and his limbs entangled around his brother. 

Dean kisses the top of Sam's head, runs his hand on Sam's back. Dean, as always, is the definition of comfort and stability. Nothing's going to make either of them move from that spot for a long time. 

Eventually, they fall asleep. 

The next morning, Sam moves his stuff into Dean's room. They've always shared a room, Sam argues when Bobby raises a single eyebrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been pointed out to me that i've fallen away from these. i figured no one liked them. but.  
> questions, comments, drink that has a memory attached to it, concerns all welcome.


	16. Chapter 15

Dean is at the end of his rope. He stares into the mirror like it has answers for him. Like he can look just behind his own eyes and just  _know_ what to do now. He stares for long enough that the glass fogs up, so he undresses and gets into the shower. 

He's been doing this thing, lately. Something he knows Sam has done, still does, probably does more now that he's eating twice a day. He's been doing this thing, lately, where he touches his own body. Like he's trying to memorize it, or take stock of it. He pulls at the skin on his stomach. He pinches his thighs between two fingers. He runs his nails, not lightly, up and down his arms. 

Dean hates his body. And that's new. And scary. Because what if this is how it started for Sam? What if he's learning how to be sick from being around it? Is that even possible? 

Showers have become an unpleasant ordeal. Where he used to be in and out in about six minutes, well trained from living with his father, now he takes twenty minutes. Fourteen of them just touching. Scrutinizing. Hating. 

And it's not like he ever had particularly gentle hands. They were when he was young. They held Sammy, clung to his mother's leg, hugged his father. Then he learned how to hunt, how to kill, how to like killing. He can handle a gun, throw a punch, gut something with a knife, now. His hands aren't gentle anymore, so he guesses he should have figured one day they would turn on him. 

 

Sam puts his toes into both of his socks and pulls them up at the same time, just to see if he can. He's killing time before he has to go downstairs for breakfast. It's Saturday, so his meal schedule is a little wonkier. Instead of eating at 6:30, like he has to for school, he doesn't eat until 9:30. Which just means dinner is now that much closer to breakfast, therefore that much harder to do.

Dean and Bobby are letting Sam skip lunch, still. They think he needs to be worked up to eating three meals a day. And, eventually, two snacks. They have to get his weight back up, make eating a normal and necessary thing again. 

Basically, they've done too much research into what they're "supposed" to do. Which, what else should Sam have expected? Hunters are great at research. 

Sam's a little frustrated that it's Saturday, for more than just the meal schedule. There's this guy at school who smiles when he sees Sam. It almost makes his heart stop, like, every time. They haven't really spoken much, but this guy doesn't smile like that at everyone, and it makes Sam feel like maybe he might be special. Something worth someone's attention. 

Honestly, Sam knows what he looks like. He hates it, but he knows other people... don't. Girls seem to like him, at least. They're inviting him over all the time to "study." Even though he knows he's gaining weight back, which, he'll admit he doesn't  _know_ so much as feel, the girls still ask for his number. He turns them all down. Doesn't give a reason because he's too tired for social niceties. He just shrugs and says, "No, thanks."

But if this guy, Riley Jacobs, with the jaw and the eyes and the hair and the  _body_ , god, that body, if this guy were to ask Sam if he wanted to come over and study, Sam might be so inclined as to say yes. 

Now dressed and unable to procrastinate any longer, Sam heads down the hall toward breakfast. And maybe he's just looking for an excuse to delay his meal even further, but he hesitates outside the bathroom door when he hears that the shower is still running. Dean doesn't take long showers. Maybe Dean's downstairs and now Bobby's in the shower? Sam goes to investigate. 

But Bobby's in the kitchen, scraping a serving of scrambled eggs onto a plate. "Morning," he says.

Sam just nods. Then, like it was just a passing thought and not a point of concern, he asks, "Jesus, how long has Dean been in the shower?"

"A while." Bobby shrugs. "Probably just tryna beautify himself for some girl."

Sam feels a little like he wants the floor to swallow him whole. There's a girl. Of course, there's a girl. Why wouldn't there be a girl, it's Dean. 

And maybe it's not fair of him to be upset and jealous that there's a girl. There may soon be a guy in Sam's life. Sam vows to talk to Riley on Monday at school, maybe only to get back at Dean for there being a girl, but. 

"Hey, Bobby?" Sam asks, timidly, as he sits down at his spot at the small kitchen table. Bobby sets the skillet in the sink and goes to his seat before looking at Sam. His eyebrows flick up ever so slightly. "I was just... wondering," Sam starts. 

"Mhmm?"

"Well, Dean's got a girl, and, like, I was just wondering, what if I had a... someone?"

"Girl troubles?"

Sam shakes his head. "Not exactly."

Bobby takes a long pause. It makes Sam squirm. He shovels a few forkfuls of egg into his mouth, his fork scraping against the plate is the only sound in the kitchen. Eventually, Bobby asks, "Boy troubles?"

The tone is different. A little more pinched. But Bobby still asked, which is more than John ever would have done, so Sam dares to nod.

"I don't know a whole lot about that," Bobby says, a little unnecessarily, "But it can't be all that different. Anything I can do for ya?"

Sam smiles a little, warmed for a moment that Bobby cares quite as much as he does. "I just, I need to know how to ask someone out."

"Well, at your age, you pretty much just blurt it out and hope the person finds it endearing."

Sam can't help but notice that neither he nor Bobby used male pronouns, but still, it's leaps and bounds beyond what he was expecting when he thought vaguely of having a conversation like this. Just as Sam begins to wonder how Dean would react, Dean appears in the doorway with his hair sparkling wet and his clothes sticking to him like he barely cared to dry off.

"Morning," is all he offers before taking a seat at the table and picking the whole scrambled egg up on his fork, looking at it with something akin to distaste, and shoving it into his mouth. Sam expects Dean to say something else, Dean seems to almost enjoy talking with his mouth full, he does it so often, but nothing is said. When he finishes chewing, Dean says something under his breath about going out and leaves Sam and Bobby.

"What's got his panties in a twist?"

Sam shrugs, then says, "I have homework."

"It's Saturday."

"It still needs to get done, why wait until tomorrow?"

Bobby laughs. Sam's not really sure what at, maybe him. He leaves the room and catches Dean just as he's about to head out the front door.

"Where are you going?" Sam can hear the pathetic, clingy whine in his voice, but he hopes Dean is too distracted to notice.

"Out."

"I'm not your mother," Sam says. "You can tell me where you're going."

Dean sighs, runs his hand over his mouth, and then actually turns all the way around to look at Sam. "This is hard, Sammy. I just need out for a few hours."

Sam feels himself shrink down to about two inches tall. His voice seems to match his new height, because it's small and timid when he manages to say, "Please don't drink."

Dean laughs, big, but forced. "I thought you're not my mother."

"Don't drink when you're sad."

"Why not?"

The challenge plucks up a little more courage in Sam. "Because Dad does that. If I can't be Mom, you can't be Dad."

"What do you know?" Dean bristles. "You're just some dumb kid."

Sam takes a minute before he speaks again. He keeps his voice level and as warm as he can manage. Which is much warmer than it used to be. Eating seems to have brought back feeling in his fingers and his voice. "This, uh. Got out of hand, a little. Just, be safe, alright? That's all I meant."

Dean starts moving back towards the door with a mutter of "Yeah, sure," and Sam is feeling a little like he's letting an opportunity slip through his fingers.

"Dean?"

"What?"

Sam pulls his hoodie sleeves over his hands. "I'm just... worried, is all."

"You're always worried."

"About you."

"Leave it alone, Sam."

Dean's out the door before any more can be said on the topic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> questions, comments, all the dumb nicknames you have for your pet(s), and concerns all welcome!


End file.
